


Harry Potter and the Breaking of the Fourth Wall

by Keep_Calm_And_Expecto_Patronum



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Lube, M/M, Meta, Metafiction, Pop Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:41:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27370615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keep_Calm_And_Expecto_Patronum/pseuds/Keep_Calm_And_Expecto_Patronum
Summary: Through absolutely no fault of his own, Deadpool is plucked from his own universe and tossed into the Wizarding world. As a proud Potterhead and loyal Hufflepuff, there are worse places that he could have ended up. Harry is less than enamoured by this stranger’s sudden appearance, but when he learns of the true reason for Deadpool’s arrival, the author finds the entire story in peril as one of her lead character’s refuses to cooperate.**Written for the Pen15 is Mightier: Prompt Exchange 2020**
Relationships: Harry Potter/Wade Wilson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 39
Collections: Pen15 is Mightier Prompt Exchange 2020





	1. Everyone, meet Deadpool

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Pen15isMightierPromptExchange2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Pen15isMightierPromptExchange2020) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Two immortals, Deadpool and Harry Potter are dating but still haven't told each other those special three words. They share their first Christmas together as a couple and experience some other firsts with each other as well.
> 
> **Note to Promptee:**
> 
> I just wanted to thank you for providing such an inspirational prompt! This probably isn't what you had in mind for a story, but I really hope that you enjoy it because it was so much fun to write. Merry Christmas!

Hi there. Deadpool breaking the fourth wall here.

You’re probably asking yourself, hey, what’s the star of the (former) highest-grossing R-rated movie EVER (fuck you, Joker. Jerk.) and beloved Canadian anti-hero doing in fanfiction? Yeah, I don’t know why I’m here, either. I think the writer’s just mad. Or bored. Well, I guess we’ll find out—together!

I mean, it’s not like there’s any monetary incentive to write this, is there? I’d get it if you wanted to sell merchandise, but what am I even doing here? 

_Deadpool pulls out a copy of this story from the back pocket of his suit and skims through it. He pauses as one page, in particular, that involves a gratuitous sex scene between himself and Harry Potter catches his attention._

Oh. 

_Deadpool stuffs the book into his back pocket again._

Well, that’s just lazy writing. 

(Author _)_ _Excuse_ me?

Well, it is! Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been a proud Potterhead and loyal Hufflepuff for _years._ I’ve five-knuckle shuffled thinking about that hot jock wizard more times than I can count. So finally getting the chance to bone him is really great. 

(Author) I sense a ‘but’ coming.

Buuuuut, I have noticed that you tend to fall back on sex scenes when you can’t think of any other way of progressing the plot. I’ve read your work, I see you do it all the time.

(Author) I’ve never had any complaints about it before.

Well, doesn’t that just speak volumes about the type of readers that you attract?

(Author) Do you really want to insult the people who are supposed to be rooting for you in this story?

In case you’ve forgotten, _I’m_ not the one writing this story. 

(Author) ...fair point.

What’s this story supposed to be about, anyway? 

(Author) Didn’t you read the summary?

Yeah, but I just wanted to get a heads up in case anything unexpected were to happen: plot twists, possible misunderstandings between myself and the other main character(s), complications to build narrative momentum…

(Author) I’d rather keep it a surprise. 

Well, I’d rather know what I’m letting myself in for, thanks very much. _Deadpool reaches for the copy of this story that was previously stuffed in his back pocket to find it has mysteriously disappeared._ Hey! Give that back!

(Author) Haha. No.

This is some continuity error Diabolus ex Machina bullshit!

(Author) Tough. This is my story, bucko. I can write it however I like. 

  
I guess so. Damn, you really have me by the short and curlies, don’t you? Well, since you’re the one calling the shots, can you at least write in the sex scene that we’re using plenty of lube? I might be immortal, but going in dry still hurts like a motherfucker. Or a Deadpoolfucker. Ha. Joke.

(Author) Duly noted.

Seriously though, there is a _shocking_ amount of erotic fanfiction where there isn’t a lick of lube in sight! Have you ever had anyone going in you dry? It feels like someone’s going at you with sandpaper wrapped around a cactus. _Deadpool shakes his head sadly._ There are so many fictional buttholes out there that have not been given the care, attention or indeed, the lubrication, that they sorely need. I light a candle in remembrance for them all.

(Author) Any other requests before your story begins?

Is Spiderman going to make an appearance?

(Author) Probably not.

Bummer. In that case, can I shoot Umbridge in the face? I know that’ll probably be difficult to fit into the plot of this story in any way that makes sense, but I’ve always wanted to do it and, _my god,_ it would be so satisfying. 

(Author) I dunno. This story is supposed to be romantic…

Pleeeeeeeeease?

(Author) Hmm. I’ll see what I can do.

Great. Oh! And can you fancast Darren Criss as Harry? I’ve had the hots for him since his AVPM days. Well, him and The Scarf of Sexual Preference. I’d love to kiss the rainbow but I didn’t see his name in the tags. 

(Author) To be honest, I’ve always pictured Dan Radcliffe when I think about Harry—

Ummmm, who’s the one who’s going to engage in this gratuitous sex scene for your twisted pleasure?

(Author) Urgh, fine. Darren Criss it is.

Excellent. Also, no cows.

(Author) Sorry?

Can we ixnay on the cows in this story? I’m bovinophobic. Come on, if you’re a fan of my work, you should know this.

(Author) I’m not making any promises.

Thank you, glorious writer in a world beyond my comprehension.

(Author) You’re welcome. 

Alrighty then. That wraps up chapter one, I suppose. I’ll see you guys over in chapter two. Bring some snacks, yeah? And plenty of lube. I don't trust her to remember. 


	2. The Meet-Cute

It was a picture-perfect Christmas Eve. After a hellish week at work, Deadpool and Harry had absconded to their secret cabin in the woods to celebrate their first Christmas together. Nobody knew where they were (well, except Ron and Hermione, of course) and the first thing that they did once they had lit a log fire was tear off all of their clothes and fall into bed as one, their passion for one another burning like the flames in the fireplace. Now, they lay wrapped in each other’s arms in front of a roaring fire, admiring the twinkling lights of the beautifully decorated Christmas tree in the corner of the room—

“Hold up,” said Deadpool, interrupting The Author’s introduction. “How the hell did we get here?”

(Author) Oh for the love of god, I’ve barely started the story! What is it _this_ time? 

“How can you not remember? We just got here,” said Harry with a note of worry, because obviously, he couldn't hear The Author speak. 

Deadpool shook his head. “Sorry, hun, I wasn’t talking to you.”

Harry frowned. “Then who are you talking to?”

“The Author.”

“Oh,” Harry scowled. _“Her.”_

(Author) Wait. Harry knows about me?

Deadpool hit The Author with a withering look. “We just went through this: who’s the one writing this story?”

(Author) ...oh yeah. 

“That’s not what I want to talk to you about,” said Deadpool, waving his hand dismissively. “You haven’t explained how we came to be here.”

(Author) Where?

_“Here!”_ he stressed. “The cabin! How did Harry and I even meet? Do you really expect your readers to believe that Harry Potter and I just met and fell in love without any kind of explanation?”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Wait...you’re in love with me?”

Deadpool grimaced. “Shit. Forget I said that. That scene’s not supposed to happen until later in the story.”

(Author) Come on dude, this was just meant to be a fun little one-shot for a Christmas prompt exchange.

“This is my life we’re talking about!” Deadpool cried. “It might be fictitious, but it means something to me! Sure, it might be a little heavy on the exposition, but I’m sure the readers will forgive you.” Deadpool attempted to pull his best puppy dog eyes and simpered, “Do it for me, will ya? Please?”

(Author) Urgh...why can’t I say no to you?

“Because I’m an amusing and charming protagonist,” he explained. “It’s not my fault, I’m just written that way.”

(Author) So true. Alright, let’s start again, shall we? 

Deadpool nudged Harry and grinned. “You better brace yourself, I think we’re about to engage in a little time travel.”

(Author) Nah, we’re just doing a flashback. I’m leaving it in your capable hands to explain how we got here. 

Deadpool rolled his eyes. “Man, you’re really ticking all of the boxes for lazy literary devices, aren’t you?”

(Author) Do you want me to introduce your character in a field of cows? Because if you keep ripping on my style of writing, I’ll stick you smack bang in the middle of a horde of Holstein Friesians.

“I’m joking!” said Deadpool with a note of panic. “There’s no need for any cows in this story.”

“Do you ever think about the day we met?” said Harry suddenly, for no other reason than to prompt Deadpool into explaining how exactly that came to be. 

“Oh yeah! I think about it all the time. I remember it like it was yesterday…”

* * *

Not quite yesterday, but no more than a year ago—‌don’t ask me precisely when, I wasn’t exactly keeping track. I’m not some overly sentimental sap that feels the need to celebrate every little milestone in our relationship. I mean, there are people who make a song and dance about celebrating their six month anniversary online. That isn’t even a milestone! Yeah, you know the type of people that I’m talking about. The same one that #blessed on insta pics of their dinner. Like anyone gives a shit about your quinoa salad, _Karen—_

(Author) Can we get on with the story, please?

Oh. Yeah, sure. As I was saying, I was chilling in my apartment, watching _Titanic_ with Blind Al (seriously), minding my own business when Doctor Stephen Strange of all people came crashing through the front door. I, the good host that I am, ignored the fact that he’d just blown the door off of its hinges and offered him a drink and a bite of my burrito (pun intended). But Stevey-boy, he starts yelling his head off about how I _killed him._ Well, I looked him up and down, all puffed up and furious.

“You look alive and well to me,” I mumbled through a mouthful of my delicious three bean burrito. Strange threw a paperback book onto my lap with a picture of yours truly on the front cover entitled: _Deadpool Kills the Marvel Universe by Cullen Bunn_ . “Oh, _that.”_

“Yes, _that.”_

I picked up the book and flicked through the pages. “Oh man, I haven’t read this in a long time.”

“So, you admit it?” Strange challenged. “You killed all of us: me, Tony, Steve?”

“Well, yeah. I guess I did,” I tossed the book onto Blind Al’s lap so that she could pretend to have a look. “But that was _years_ ago.”

“You stabbed me through the chest!” Strange raged. 

“Yeah, but it’s not like it was you specifically, it was a different version of you!” I argued. “Look, if you’re going to take issue with anyone, I’d go speak to this dude, Cullen Bunn. Clearly, he has some deep-rooted homicidal tendencies.”

I’m gonna be honest, I couldn’t see what the problem was. I mean, have you _seen_ his movie? This dude’s died more times than I have! Besides, this version of Stephen Strange was alive and well; I think it’s a little melodramatic to take this particular death, that technically didn’t even involve him, so personally. If you ask me, I don’t think it was the comic that was really bothering him. I think our wannabe magician friend was a little salty about my movie outperforming his at the box office (his only raked in a paltry $677.7 million upon release—suck it, Strangey.) 

I tried to explain that I wasn’t even a fan of that particular series of issues, but there was no reasoning with him. I tried to make a run for it, but it was no use. He opened up one of his dumb Catherine wheel portals right under my feet and I found myself falling through time and space into an unknown location to, in his words, ‘think about what I had done.’ 

I landed in an undignified heap, face first, on a highly polished dark wood floor. A loud crunch and a sharp shooting pain through my face told me that I’d fractured my cheekbone in the fall. I rolled onto my back just in time to see Strangey smiling down at me before flipping me the bird and closing the portal. As both the doctor and the portal vanished, a peacock-blue and gold inlaid ceiling was revealed. I figured I must have hit my head pretty damn hard because I could swear that the symbols across the ceiling were moving and changing in all directions. Not that I had much time to think about it. A moment later, I had several people in dressing gowns peering down at me like _I_ was the weird one (which okay, I guess I had just fallen through a portal in the ceiling). 

“Are you alright, lad?” asked one of the weirdos in a thick Cockney accent.

“Oh god,” I groaned. “You sent me to _London?_ Urgh, it’s gonna cost me a fortune to get a flight home.”

There was an intake of breath and several of the weirdos looked at one another. 

“Good gracious,” one of them exclaimed. “He’s American!”

Understandably scandalized at this accusation, I opened my mouth to assure them that I am _not_ American, only to have several more weirdos rush forward—this time in more formal looking dressing gowns— and press pencils into my face.

“Hey!” I snapped, batting away the pencils. “What gives?”

“Who are you?” one of them demanded. 

“How did you breach our security?” another cried.

“Look, guys, I’m sorry that I broke your floor with my face,” I said, rising to my feet and brushing the dust from my suit. “But I’m missing Kate Winslet whipping out her French girls and my burrito is probably stone cold by now. I’ll be on my way if you just point me in the direction of the exit.”

“You’re not going anywhere until you answer our questions,” one of the weirdos snarled.

Now, I was in no mood to answer any of their questions: I was hungry, my face hurt, and the day I had planned to spend chilling on the sofa was ruined for no good reason. These guys didn’t look like they were going to let me go though, so I figured my quickest means of escape was just to shoot everyone. I drew my guns and was about to _pew pew_ dem madafakas, but before I got the chance to fire off my first round, someone shouted _“Expelliarmus!”_ and my pistols went flying into the air. I couldn’t believe it. It was like some invisible force had yanked them straight out of my hands. Before I knew what the hell was going on, ropes had appeared out of thin air and bound me from head to toe (kinky). You’d be surprised how difficult it is to keep your balance like that, so naturally, I fell forward right onto my face. Again. 

“Owwww! Goddammit...” 

I groaned and struggled against my bindings, but there was no give in them. I felt the sole of a boot press into my shoulder and kick me over onto my back, and when I opened my eyes I was greeted with the sight of (I gotta be honest) a super hot guy kneeling next to me. He’s asking me all sorts of questions, like who the hell I am and how did I manage to Apparate into the Atrium. But I’m not listening to a word that he’s saying, because all I can hear is Gary Wright singing _Dream Weaver_ in my ear, and I’m looking at this guy, and I realize that _I know him._ Okay, I’ve never actually met him before but who _doesn’t_ know him? The bright green eyes, the round glasses, the messy black hair...if nothing else was a giveaway, the lightning bolt scar beneath his bangs definitely was.

“Holy shit in a bucket. You’re Harry frickin’ Potter!” I gasped. 

No doubt, Harry frickin’ Potter has heard this a lot, because his reaction was merely to grimace and sigh. “Yeah, that’s me. Mind if I ask your name?”

“The name’s Deadpool and I really find you very attractive. Did I say that out loud?”

Harry cocked an eyebrow. “Deadpool? That’s an unusual name.”

Well, I couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Are you kidding me? You occupy a universe where people have names like Arsenius Jigger and you think _my_ name is unusual? Whatever. My friends call me Deady-Pool,” I joked. “I’d shake your hand if I could, but you’ve got me all tied up at the moment. Never took you for the kinky type, but I’m down.”

If my eyes weren’t deceiving me, I could swear that the corner of Harry’s mouth quirked into a smile for a split second before he cleared his throat and rose to his feet. “Berrycloth, escort him to my office.”

_“Berrycloth?”_ I spluttered. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Oh man, it’s taking every fibre of my being not to make a dangleberries joke. Whoops! Too late. Oh, come on. You must realize how ridiculous your name is, even by this universe's standards!”

Rather than lift me back onto my feet, Mr. Dangleberry, who I only then realized must be an Auror (thank Merlin I’m familiar with this franchise), pointed his wand at me and my body rose into the air, coming to a stop about a meter off of the ground (and yes, I’m using the metric system. I might hate it but like I said, I’m Canadian.) I watched as Harry marched off in the opposite direction of the elevators, leaving me at the mercy of Dangleberry, whose driving skills were dubious at best. He managed to bump my head off of the sliding doors when we exited the elevator on Level Two, probably on purpose. As I was levitated through the Auror Department, hardly anyone looked up at me. I guess they get all sorts of weird stuff in and out of the office, I doubt I’m the strangest thing that they’d seen that day. 

When we reached Harry’s office, Dangleberry swished his wand through the air in one quick swipe and I was unceremoniously dropped into the rickety old chair in front of his desk. Left on my own, I tried to wriggle free from my bindings again but, realizing that was no use, I relaxed into the chair and took in my surroundings. It was much like any other governmental office that I’ve had the displeasure of coming across: littered with paperwork and reeking of stale coffee. There were a bunch of other strange objects that I presumed were either magical in nature or for bondage play: silver instruments whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke, squiggly rods made of gold and a glass spinning top (or was it a butt plug?) discarded on top of a pile of _Quidditch Weekly_ magazines. The walls were covered in portraits of old white dudes snoozing in their frames, and I was beginning to think that I should have brought my rape whistle. One portrait in particular, however, caught my attention. Albus Dumbledore was situated directly above Harry’s desk, and the old codger was smiling at me as though he had been expecting me.

“So, what version of yourself do you prefer?” I asked. “Richard Harris or Michael Gambon?”

Dumbledore’s grin broadened and without missing a beat, he replied, “I rather like Jude Law in the role.”

“Ooh, touché.” 

The office door creaked open then and I twisted in my chair to see who had entered the room. Imagine my delight when Harry frickin’ Potter was accompanied by none other than Ron frickin’ Weasley and _Hermione frickin’ Granger!_

“Oh my god, the whole gang's here!” I cried, practically bouncing in my seat with excitement. “I know that I’m in a lot of trouble, but can I take a selfie with you guys? Nobody will believe me back home that I really met you, otherwise.”

Harry took the seat behind his desk before speaking. “First things first: tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”

“Ooft. Well, that’s a bit of an existential quandary, isn’t it? I mean, why are any of us here? Do we merely exist in the imaginations of unknowable beings for the sole purpose of providing entertainment? Oh. You mean why I’m in the Ministry of Magic. Well, that’s a tough one to explain too, actually.”

Ron propped himself on the edge of Harry’s desk and crossed his arms. “Well, based on your accent, you’re American, aren’t you? Let’s start with what you’re doing here in England.”

I gasped and shot Ron a scandalized look. “Excuse me! I’ll have you know that I am a proud Canadian!” 

“Alright, so you’re Canadian and your name is Deadpool,” said Harry. “How did you manage to override our wards and open a portal in the Atrium?”

“That wasn’t me,” I explained. “That was Doctor Strange’s fault.”

“What’s a Doctor Strange?” asked Ron.

“A doctor is like a Muggle Healer,” Hermione explained. Her eyes narrowed and she asked, “Wait a second...are you Muggle-born?”

“Well, I’m not a wizard, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The trio shared a worried look before turning their attention back to me.

“Are you a Muggle?” asked Ron cautiously. 

“That is to say, you don’t have any magical abilities?” Harry added.

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say I have no magical abilities. Technically, I’m totally indestructible—and completely unfuckable.”

My wicked sense of humour was lost on the trio as they began discussing amongst themselves how a Muggle could have wandered into the Ministry of Magic. I explained that I didn’t wander in, I was dumped here by a grade-A douchebag without my passport or any means of getting home. 

“And where is home, exactly?” asked Hermione.

“That’s...complicated,” I replied evasively. 

So, I know that you all know that _I_ know that I’m a comic book character. I’m sure that it makes for some hilarious moments like this when I break the fourth wall, but do you have any idea how frustrating it is when nobody else around me realizes that this isn’t real? They literally have no way of comprehending the fact that we don’t really exist, because believe me, I’ve tried telling them. Over and over again. And they just...don’t get it. Dick move on the part of the writers, in my opinion. Thanks very much, Nicieza and Liefeld, you complete asswipes. 

And _double_ dick move on Doctor Strange’s part. He’s literally the only other person in existence to have some grasp of this situation, and he just leaves me here to fend for myself. Some friend he is.

“And dick-move squared on you, The Author!” I cried without warning, earning alarmed looks from the trio. “You’re the true architect of this shitty situation and you know what? It blows donkey dick, and I don’t want to play anymore.”

“Who the hell is he talking to?” asked Ron, looking around the office with confusion.

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t know, he seems very confused and distressed. Maybe he’s been hit with a Confundus charm.”

“Should we take him to St Mungo’s?” Harry suggested. 

“I assure you, my dear boy, he is perfectly lucid. He is, however, having a bit of a dispute with The Author of this story about what course it should take,” Dumbledore chipped in matter-of-factly before addressing Deadpool directly. “Things not playing out as you’d hoped, I take it?”

I gaped at Dumbledore, who was looking at me with that unsettling, serene smile of his. “You know about _her?”_

“Indeed,” he confirmed. “You didn’t think that I was mentioned merely for decorative purposes? I’m here to help you.”

I slumped back into the chair and snarled, “Goddamn deus ex machina. How many more lazy literary devices are you going to cram into this thing?”

(Author) As many as I damn well please. Now quit your complaining and brace yourself: exposition is coming.

“Good lord, we’re still doing Game of Thrones jokes?” Deadpool despaired. “Urgh, fine. Guys, take this opportunity to top up on your snacks, go to the bathroom, etcetera. We’ll return with Chapter Three after this commercial break. AND DON’T FORGET THE LUBE.” 


	3. The Romantic Comedy Formula

“Before we start this chapter, can someone please remove these ropes? I’m beginning to chafe in places where you’d think twice about kissing better.”

“Oh.” Harry drew his wand and with the flick of his wrist, the ropes vanished. “Sorry, I forgot about that.”

“Next time, we’ll establish a safeword,” I teased, rubbing my sore wrists. “I’m thinking Ryan Reynolds. Too meta? Nah, I think that’s just about right for this story. Now, where were we?” I pulled a copy of this story which had miraculously appeared in my back pocket again to check what my next line was. “Ah, yes. Dumbledore! I should have realized that you’d be involved in this mess. You’re just like Baskin Robbins.”

Dumbledore laughed (at least someone here appreciated my humour). “I would never claim to know everything. I know very little about a great many things, including your name.”

“He said his name is Deadpool,” said Harry. 

Dumbledore peered at me over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “Would you care to tell us your _real_ name?”

“Like you don’t already know,” I sneered. “Fine. The name’s Wade Wilson. But most folk just call me Deadpool.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wilson,” said Dumbledore. “It seems that you are already familiar with myself and everyone else in the room, so we can forgo introductions and discuss the matter at hand: how you came to be here and what The Author intends to do with you.”

“Who is this Author that both of you keep mentioning?” asked Harry, looking understandably pissed at being out of the loop in his own story. 

“That will also be explained,” Dumbledore assured him. “But not until Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger have left the room, I’m afraid.”

“You know that I’m just going to tell them what you said the minute we finish this conversation,” Harry reminded him.

“And that is your prerogative. But I’m afraid that on this one rare occasion, I must insist on speaking to you and Mr. Wilson alone.”

Ron rolled his eyes and pushed himself onto his feet. “Don’t worry about it, mate. Come find us when you’re done here.”

Hermione squeezed Harry’s shoulder before she and Ron headed for the exit. “You know where to find us.”

Harry waved goodbye to his besties, waiting for them to close the door behind him before spinning around in his chair to face Dumbledore’s portrait. “Alright, we’re alone now. What’s the big secret?”

“Oh, it’s a doozy,” I laughed. “I don’t think you’ll be able to handle it.”

“He will,” Dumbledore assured me with a level of confidence that verged on arrogant if you asked me (which, incidentally, he didn’t). “Better than Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger would, I dare say.”

Harry frowned. “What’s this all about, sir?”

Dumbledore considered his words for a moment before speaking again. “What if I were to tell you that Mr. Wilson here doesn’t actually exist in real life? That he is, in fact, a comic book character, created by a publishing company for children’s entertainment?”

“Christ, when you say it like that, it really does sound grim,” I mumbled.

Harry’s frown deepened. “But...if he’s not real, how can he be here?”

“That’s the million-dollar question, kiddo,” I said with a wry laugh. “Why do you think?”

Harry’s face contorted as he tried to figure it out, but the punchline failed him. Poor guy. There was no way that he could possibly comprehend the truth of this situation. Harry suddenly turned his attention to me and asked, “You’re not real?”

“Technically, no.”

“And you’re not a spectral of any kind? A ghost or poltergeist or...or a memory or anything like that?”

“Hell no,” I laughed. “I’m just a comic book character, man. I come from the twisted imaginations of some dudes who write in their parents’ basements for a publishing company. Well, technically I’m the property of Disney now, so you could say that I’m a Disney Princess. Eat your heart out, Cinderella.” 

“A comic book character,” Harry repeated. He turned back to Dumbledore. “I don’t understand.”

Any trace of a smile on Dumbledore’s face was long gone now. “Mr. Wilson here speaks the truth: he is a fictional character created in the minds of some remarkable people—”

“Whoa, let’s rein it in a bit,” I cut in. “Describing those numbskulls as remarkable is a bit of a stretch.”

“Therefore,” Dumbledore continued as though I hadn’t interrupted him with more of my great humour. “He can _only_ exist in other fictional realms.”

“Other fictional realms,” Harry repeated slowly. 

“Ooh, I think the penny is about to drop,” I whispered. 

Harry’s facial expressions somersaulted through a full spectrum of emotions in a miraculously short period of time. First, there was the blank stare of incomprehension (that’s a common one. Most people never get past that stage.) Then he frowned and I knew that he was on the precipice of realizing the truth, and _then_ (jackpot) his eyes widened with a look of abject horror. He shook his head vigorously as though that would literally dislodge the terrible realization of his existence from his brain. Then, understandably, came denial. 

“No,” Harry stammered. “No, that can’t be. I can’t be...if I’m not real, then I would _know._ Surely, I would know. I mean, how could I not? But if I’m not…” Harry turned to Dumbledore and asked desperately, “I am real, aren’t I? Sir?”

At least Dumbledore had the good grace to look guilty. “You are real, Harry...in a sense.”

_“‘In a sense’?_ What the hell does that mean?” he demanded.

“You are real in the sense that you exist in the imaginations of everyone that reads your stories,” he explained gently. “Every time a person cheers at your triumphs or when tears are shed with you at your losses, you are very much real in that moment; you exist in their hearts and minds. That is more real than most people’s lived experiences.”

Shockingly, Harry didn’t look comforted by this explanation. “But that’s not the same thing as actually existing!” 

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” I cried. “Have you any idea how unbelievably depressing it is to exist simply to amuse the readers? That’s no way to live!”

“Stop talking!” Harry snapped. He roughly ran his hand through his hair and began to panic. “This can’t be true. There must be some other explanation.”

“I’m afraid it is the truth,” said Dumbledore mournfully. “And Mr. Wilson here can prove it.”

“I can? Oh. Yeah, the story…” I went to retrieve the story from my back pocket but, yet again, it had vanished. “Oh, _come on!_ Do you want me to progress this damn story, or not? How am I supposed to prove to him that this is all made up bullshit?”

Dumbledore cleared his throat to get my attention. “Perhaps there is something else in your pocket that may be of use?”

Muttering mutinously under my breath, I proceeded to empty my pockets onto Harry’s desk. I had all the usual things that you would expect: guns, grenades, sai, a couple of knives, and a bunch of receipts from Chimichangas. I pulled out my cell phone and tossed it onto the table and proceeded to turn out each of my pockets to show that I had nothing else on me.

“See? There’s nothing here that can help. Unless he wants to kill himself, _which he can’t,”_ I sneered. Harry frowned in confusion at that comment, so I figured, what the hell? The damage is already done, so he might as well know about this, too. “Yeah, that’s one of the other great gifts our benevolent creators bestowed upon us—immortality. Thanks very much! We can’t even put ourselves out of our misery if we want to.”

“Mr. Wilson,” said Dumbledore sharply. 

“What?” I sighed. 

“Your phone,” he stressed. “I believe that you have access to some sort of digital library, if I’m not mistaken.”

I stared at my cell phone, wondering how that was going to be of any use, and then it hit me. “Oh! But I thought electronic items didn’t work in the wizarding world?”

“There are some exceptions, like cameras,” Dumbledore explained. “And, for convenience of plot progression, your phone is one of those exceptions.”

“Ha. Of course, it is.” 

I picked up my phone and scrolled through the apps, clicked on _Kindle_ and held it out to Harry, who reluctantly took it from my hand. He looked at the screen and his eyes widened with shock.

_“Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone,”_ he said slowly.

“Most folk on my side of the pond have the Sorcerer’s Stone edition, but I’m a purist and wanted the original version,” I declared proudly, although Harry wasn’t listening. His eyes were flitting back and forth across the screen as he began to read the story of his own life. I tapped my foot impatiently for a few moments before asking, “Is he going to read the whole thing while we wait?”

Dumbledore shrugged. I sank back into my chair, wishing I had my phone to keep me occupied; so far, the wizarding world had been pretty uneventful. How disappointing. We sat there for a long time while Harry continued to read in stony silence. Dumbledore sat patiently, twiddling his thumbs and staring up at the painted ceiling of his portrait as he waited. I got bored and started doodling on scraps of parchment, trying to figure out how I was going to get home. I was thrown into a world of magic, surely there must be some way of getting me back to my universe. Until I figured that out, I realized that I might as well take advantage of the situation, starting with pocketing a couple of the quills and the spinning top on Harry’s desk. It wasn’t like he was going to miss them. Plus, they would make awesome additions to my collection of Wizarding World memorabilia back home.

Just as I slipped the spinning top into my pocket, it began whistling in a high-pitched tone. Harry looked up sharply from the phone and glared at me. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I lied. 

Harry rolled his eyes and rose to his feet. Dumbledore looked like he was struggling to keep a straight face as Harry drew closer to me and pulled the squealing spinning top out of my pocket.

“Hey, how did that get in there?” I replied weakly. 

“It’s a Sneakoscope,” Harry explained, tossing it into the top drawer of his desk to muffle the sound. “It goes off if someone nearby is doing something untrustworthy.”

“Hmm, looks like I need to brush up on my lore for this universe,” I mused. 

“Now that you’ve had the chance to read some of the book for yourself, do you believe now that Mr. Wilson and I have been truthful with you?” Dumbledore asked.

Harry worried his lip but didn’t answer immediately. He picked up my phone again and looked at me, “This story...it mentions things that happened to me that I never told anyone about.”

“Feels quite invasive to read your most intimate thoughts in paperback form, doesn’t it? It’s like someone’s reading your diary aloud to a roomful of strangers.”

Harry sighed and slumped back into his chair. “Yeah, it does. It’s a feeling that I’m all too familiar with.”

“That sucks, bro.”

“Tell me about it,” he murmured. “So, if I’m understanding this correctly, I—my life, everyone that I know, everything that I’ve ever experienced—all came from the mind of this author, JK Rowling.”

“She Who Must Not Be Named,” I corrected him. “But yeah, pretty much.”

“And this author,” Harry continued. “She’s the one responsible for every bad thing that’s ever happened to me—the death of my parents, living with the Dursleys, Voldemort trying to kill me over and over again, all the times I’ve been tortured and almost died— _everything,_ right down to my fear of pigeons...I endured all of that for the purpose of children’s entertainment?”

“Umm...yeah. I guess so.”

“Wow.” Harry shook his head. “That is seriously fucked up.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I replied sympathetically. “If it makes you feel any better, your stories inspired a billion-dollar franchise.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“Hell yeah! Seven books. Eight movies. And zero leaked sex tapes from the main cast. That’s a tremendous achievement.”

“There’s _seven_ books?” Harry gasped. 

“And a play, which some people in the fandom aren’t too keen on. And a couple of spin-off movies with mixed reviews.”

Harry raised the phone. “Do you have all of the books on here?”

“Pfft, obviously!” 

“Would you mind I borrowed it for a bit?” he asked. “Just until I’ve read all of them.”

“Sure thing! It’s not like I’m going anywhere. I still need to figure out how the hell I’m going to get home.”

“Which brings us back to the matter at hand,” said Dumbledore. “What you are doing here in our universe instead of your own.”

“Well, the author of this particular story, in her infinite wisdom, thought she’d attempt a crossover,” I explained. “Not that there’s much of a story going on, is there?”

“Wait,” Harry cut in. “The author of _this_ story? I thought JK Rowling was the author?”

“Oh no, this is fanfiction,” I explained. “A fan of the original series has been inspired to create their _own_ story.” 

Harry, understandably, still looked confused. “You’re going to have to explain this to me step by step.”

I groaned and addressed The Author. “Are you really going to make the readers listen to me explain all of this? I don’t think the audience is really interested in hearing this part. Can’t we just skip this?”

(Author) Yeah, you’re probably right. Let’s move things on a bit.

After a thorough and comprehensive step-by-step explanation of what fanfiction is, how JK Rowling is a transphobic douchebag (yeah, I said it. Get on the right side of history, people), bragging about my own billion-dollar franchise and how Stucky should have been canon, Dumbledore clapped his hands together and smiled. 

“Right! Harry now understands that we are all fictitious characters starring in a piece of delightful fanfiction. We must now figure out what The Author intends to do with you. Mr. Wilson, do you happen to know what genre this story is?”

“It’s supposed to be a romantic comedy, although it’s debatable how well they’re pulling it off,” I mused.

_(Author’s beta reader takes the opportunity to inject themselves into the story to say that Deadpool is nuts. The Author is doing a phenomenal job of pulling off this concept.)_

(Author) Oh you…

I had to clear my throat then in order to get the attention of The Author. “When you’re done with your circle jerk, can we get one with the story?”

(Author) Oh. Right. Sorry. 

“Excellent. That gives us some idea of what to do next.” Dumbledore pulled a chart down over his shoulder which had a large graph entitled _‘The Romantic Comedy Formula’._ “As you can see here, we have our basic formula for any romantic comedy.”

“Hold on,” Harry interrupted. “What do you mean this is a romantic comedy? Starring who, exactly?”

“That would be you and me,” I explained. 

“As I was saying,” Dumbledore continued, ignoring the scandalized expression on Harry’s face, “most stories tend to be structured in three acts: conflict, crisis, and resolution. In romantic comedies, these three acts tend to be framed as the meet-cute, the break-up, and the reunion. As you can see, we’ve already made some progress.” He used his wand as a pointer and pointed to the y-intercept. “The protagonist, Mr. Wilson, has already met his love interest.”

“That’s you,” I whispered unnecessarily to Harry.

“It’s fairly common in these types of stories for the protagonist to make a bad first impression with the love interest.”

“Yeah, he’s managed that in spades,” Harry muttered.

“It is then up to the protagonist to make a better second impression, enough to convince the love interest that they should go on a date. Cue the dating montage.”

“Oh, that’ll be fun!” I said excitedly. “That’s one of the few tropes that I actually enjoy.”

“Then...well,” Dumbledore blushed and cleared his throat. “Depending on the certification of this story, that’s usually when an R-rated scene is included.”

Harry gaped. “A _what?”_

“Moving swiftly on,” said Dumbledore loudly. “We then come to the inevitable break-up. This usually occurs through some sort of revelation or a miscommunication of some kind. Then we have another montage, some soul-searching and _voilà!_ A happy reunion and the story comes to a satisfactory conclusion.” He turned to face Harry and me with a confident smile plastered across his face. “I think it sounds manageable.”

Harry wasn’t inclined to agree.

“This is bullshit. You really expect me to play along with this? To go on a date with _him?”_ he cried, pointing accusingly at me. “I don’t even know him!” 

“But you must,” Dumbledore insisted. “In order for the story to be completed—”

“I don’t care whether this stupid story gets finished or not!” he yelled. “And I don’t care whether I’m real or not, I’m not some puppet on a string for you all to manipulate.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore pleaded. “Nobody here wants to manipulate you, least of all me.”

Harry glowered at him. “You’ve got some nerve saying that to me.”

“I have always endeavoured to be as honest as possible with you,” Dumbledore argued. “Even when I knew that it would hurt you.”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Harry leaped to his feet, snatched a fistful of sparkling powder from a flower pot on top of the fireplace and tossed it into the grate. Emerald green flames erupted into life and he stepped into the fire. He turned to me and said, “I’m sorry about your situation, Mr. Wilson, but I won’t play any part in it. Find someone else to play along with your little story.”

Dumbledore called after him, “Harry—”

“Potter Cottage!” he cried. The fire roared and Harry was engulfed in the flames. I couldn’t help but whoop with excitement at the sight and a moment later, Harry was gone. 

“That was so cool!” I exclaimed. “And I don’t know about you, but I think he handled that pretty well.”

“Mr. Wilson, you must go after Harry and talk to him,” said Dumbledore. “You must convince him that his participation in this story is essential.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to do that, he seemed like his mind was made up already.”

Dumbledore sighed and shook his head. “Then all is lost.”

“Well, that’s being a little overdramatic, don’t you think?”

Dumbledore fixed his steely gaze on me. “Do you know what will happen to us if the story remains unfinished?”

I shrugged. “Dunno. I’ve never given it much thought, if I’m honest.”

“We shall remain in limbo,” said Dumbledore gravely. “Unable to conclude the story, we will be forced to exist in a perpetual state of oblivion—forever.”

I blinked. “A perpetual state of oblivion, you say.”

“Forever.”

“Huh...I think I just peed myself a little bit.”

“This isn’t a matter of manipulation, it is a matter of destiny,” Dumbledore continued. “Each of us has our role to play, you and I included. Harry must accept his role in all of this, otherwise, we face certain doom.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” I hopped to my feet and began stuffing my weapons back into my pockets (along with a few other goodies for my collection). “So, will I just Floo straight over to his place? Put on the old Deadpool charm offensive?”

“Yes, I think that would be best. While you are away, I shall consult with the Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries. They may be able to help get you back home to your own world.”

“Thanks, gay Gandalf.” I tossed a handful of the Floo powder into the grate and whooped again when green flames burst into life. “Man, that is _awesome!_ Okay. Focus, Deadpool. The fate of the universe is in your hands. Ha! We are so screwed.”

As I called out ‘Potter’s Cottage’, I was pulled forward and Harry’s office disappeared in a whirl of emerald flames. Super cool. 


	4. A Better Second Impression

Whoever invented Floo travel needs a psych eval. If I thought falling face-first through one of Strangey’s portals was bad, that was nothing compared to this. It felt like being sucked into a flaming tumble dryer—and yes, before you ask, I know from experience what that feels like. The sound of the flames roared in my ears as I tumbled in all directions, faster and faster, knocking my elbows and knees on fireplaces that flurried past me as I fell deeper and deeper into an endless cavern of hellfire. Just when I felt ready to puke, I suddenly veered left in the direction of one of the fireplaces and I was spat out of the grate with such force that I flew across the living room and crashed into the coffee table. 

Harry, who had been sitting on his sofa with my phone in his hand, yelped in surprise when I made my grand entrance. Scrambling to his feet, he hurried over to my side. “Jesus Christ! Are you alright?”

Crawling onto my hands and knees, I coughed up a lungful of soot and gave Harry the thumbs up, but still, he insisted on helping me back to my feet. “I’m fine. My only regret is eating that reheated burrito for breakfast, it’s coming back with a vengeance now. Mind if I use your bathroom?”

Harry pointed me in the direction of the little boy’s room and I limped into the hallway, wondering if I’d managed to make a better second impression. After suffering a violent bout of Montezuma’s revenge, I cleaned up my mess as best as I could and lamented that I didn’t have a brown suit to hand for predicaments such as these. I checked my appearance in the mirror and grimaced; even with the mask, I looked like someone had stuffed a packet of shredded meat into a burst punching bag and fucked it. Hopefully, my personality would shine through enough to permanently blind Harry before he realized how unfuckable I was. 

After putting my dislocated shoulder back into place, I gave myself a quick pep talk before marching back into the living room with an air of confidence that I didn’t feel. In my absence, Harry had made two cups of tea (how quaint!) and handed me one of the mugs.

“I thought you might need this,” he said before taking a sip of his own. 

I pulled up the bottom of my mask, just enough to expose my lips, and gulped down the scalding hot tea. “Thanks, I needed that.”

“Are you sure that you’re alright?” Harry asked again. “You took quite a tumble.”

I waved my hand dismissively. “I’ll be fine once the caffeine kicks in.”

“I take that you haven’t travelled by Floo powder before?” Harry asked with a small smile.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” I joked. 

Harry’s smile broadened and he shook his head. “I’m not too keen on it myself, if I’m honest. The first time I ever used Floo powder—”

“You ended up in Borgin and Burkes!” I chipped in excitedly. “Oh man, book two is criminally underrated. It has so many clues in it that only pay off in book six! Like the opal necklace that Malfoy sees, and the vanishing cupboard that you hide in, and—” When I noticed the crestfallen expression on Harry’s face, I immediately shut my mouth and realized that I better rein in my inner fanboy pronto before Harry took out a restraining order against me. “Annnd, that was super creepy and rude of me to rhyme off key scenes of your life like a creepy stalker. Sorry.”

Harry stared at the contents of his mug and shrugged. “I know that you didn’t mean anything by it. I still can’t quite wrap my head around this whole situation.”

“You mean the whole being a fictitious character thing? Yeah, I was really bummed out when I learned that about myself.” 

“How can you stand it?” he asked desperately. “Knowing that everything you do is simultaneously predestined and meaningless?”

I placed the empty mug on the fireplace and turned to Harry. “Okay, first of all—ouch. It isn’t just your life we’re talking about here, so let’s try to dial down the existential nihilism for the time being, shall we? Secondly...well, if you must know, I don’t actually handle it all that well. The constant stream of jokes is just a coping mechanism. I’d give  _ anything  _ to not know the true nature of my existence, but I can’t because that’s not how I was written. So, I just get on with it because I don’t have any other choice.”

Harry stared back at me. “None of what you just said was reassuring in the slightest.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be. I’m just being honest.”

Harry’s shoulders sagged. “Well, if nothing else, I appreciate your honesty. You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to come by an honest person in this world. Actually, you probably do, don’t you? Since you already know everything about me.”

“Honestly, it took every fibre of my being not to call Dumbledore out on his bullshit,” I admitted. “ _ ‘I wouldn’t lie to you, Harry! I’ve only got your best interests at heart, Harry!’ _ Puh-lease! That dude has so many tricks up his sleeve, he could give Svengali a run for his money.”

“Don’t I know it,” Harry muttered darkly. “I take that he sent you here to talk me into helping you out.”

“Obviously.”

“I’m afraid the answer’s still no,” he replied firmly. “After the war, I promised myself that I wouldn’t be anyone’s puppet ever again. I might not have any control over the nature of my existence, but I can exert  _ some  _ control by refusing to take part in this charade any longer. It’s a small act of rebellion, but it’s all that I have.”

Man, this guy really was perfect for me in every way. As well as being incredibly handsome (thanks again for that, Author), Harry’s anarchist streak was giving me the chubs. Still, I was here on a mission and Harry’s participation was essential for mission success. 

“Believe me, I know exactly how you feel. This whole situation blows, and I wish that it was as simple as just asking someone else for help, but there’s more at stake here than just sticking it to the Man—or woman, in this case.” 

I told him what Dumbledore had said about the fate that befell all characters from incomplete stories. Funnily enough, Harry wasn’t keen on the prospect of being trapped in a perpetual state of oblivion for all eternity either.

“This author sounds just as bad as the other one,” he said bitterly. “I make it perfectly clear that I want no part in this, so she threatens me with eternal damnation. There’s no winning against people like that.”

“Yeah, I told her I thought that it was a shitty move, too. She said that she needed to up the stakes in order to motivate you into action.”

“Well, I’m hardly going to damn my friends to oblivion, am I?” Harry sighed and hung his head in defeat. “Fine. I’ll do whatever she wants.” He looked up at me again suddenly and added, “On one condition. No, make that two.”

I threw Harry a skeptical look. “I don’t think authors are in the business of negotiating with their characters.”

“Well, then she shouldn’t have given me the idea in the first place,” Harry argued.

“Ooh,  touché . I think you’re beginning to get the idea of how this breaking the fourth wall business works!” 

Looking more emboldened by my encouragement, when Harry spoke again, he sounded more sure of himself. “Okay, you tell her that I’m game—but only if she makes us both mortal.”

I gaped at him. “Whoa, really?” 

“Yeah! I mean, I’m assuming that’s what you want too, based on what you said earlier.”

“Uh,  _ hell yes! _ I just can’t believe that I never thought to ask for it before myself. What’s the other condition?”

“That once the story is completed, we forget that we’re fictional characters. Dumbledore was right about one thing—I can’t tell Ron and Hermione about the true nature of our existence. Could you imagine trying to explain to Ron that Fred’s death was pre-planned?” Harry shook his head. “I can’t do that, it would crush him. But I don’t see why we should have to be stuck knowing for any longer than necessary, either. Once the story is completed, there’s no practical reason for us to know that we’re fictional.” 

I rubbed my chin thoughtfully because I thought it would make me look more intelligent than I am. “You present a strong argument. I don’t know if I can convince her of your terms, but they don’t call me The Merc with a Mouth for nothing.” I turned to address The Author. “Did you get all of that?”

(Author) Yup.

“And?”

(Author) I dunno. It’s gonna mess up what I had planned for the epilogue.

“Do you want this story finished or not?” I asked hotly. “Come on, I think considering what you’re asking of him, his terms are pretty reasonable.”

(Author) I suppose you’re right. Fine, tell him that we have a deal.

I grinned and turned back to Harry. “She said yes!”

Harry’s eyes widened with surprise. “Really? And you trust her to follow through?”

“She hasn’t given me cause to doubt her yet.”

Harry worried his lip for a moment before shrugging. “I suppose I’ve already saved the world once. I guess that I could do it again.”

“Hell yeah! Deadpool and Harry Potter, just a couple of bros saving the world through mutual love and affection!” I held my fist up for Harry to bump but he didn’t immediately reciprocate. “Come on, man. Don’t leave me hangin’.” Harry rolled his eyes and lightly bumped his fist against mine. I’ll take any victory where I can get them at this rate. “Alright, let’s do this!”

“How long do you think this is going to take?” Harry asked.

“No idea,” I admitted brightly. “But the sooner we get started, the sooner it’ll be over.”

“Alright,” he sighed. “I don’t suppose you have anywhere to stay in the meantime?”

I sucked air through my teeth. “Well, my trip here wasn’t exactly planned and I left my wallet in my other suit. Would you mind if I crashed here for a few nights?”

Harry rolled his eyes again but he smiled. “Sure.”

“Awesome.” I flopped down onto his sofa. “Well, I don’t know about you but I’ve travelled a long way today and after evacuating my bowels, I’m starving. Fancy ordering in some chimichangas?”

Harry pulled a face. “What’s that?”

My stomach sank and I groaned. “I need to get back to my universe as quickly as possible.”

“If you like Mexican food, there’s a couple of places that we can order from,” Harry offered, tossing a couple of takeout menus onto my lap. 

“You like Mexican food?” I asked hopefully.

“Yeah, I love it.”

My heart literally skipped a beat then. While I ordered food for us, Harry made quick work magicking away the damage I had caused: the ash from the fire whooshed back up the chimney and the coffee table that I’d smashed repaired itself and slid across the room, so I propped my feet on top of it. Once dinner arrived, Harry settled back onto the sofa with my phone and a plateful of food on his lap. We figured that our world-saving mission could wait until after we’d gotten something to eat. 

“Would you mind if I read the rest of these books before we make a start on things?” he asked. “I might not get another chance to read them.” 

“Knock yourself out,” I mumbled through a mouthful of tasty burrito (not as good as Chimichangas but it would have to do for the time being). “You got cable?”

Harry tossed the remote control at me and I caught it in mid-air. Scrolling through the movie channels, I almost choked when I saw  _ Titanic  _ pop up on the menu. “You have  _ Titanic  _ in this universe?”

Harry looked up from the phone and frowned. “Yeah. Do you have that movie where you’re from?”

“Uh,  _ yes _ . It’s only the greatest movie of all time,” I exclaimed. “I shouldn’t be surprised that  _ Titanic  _ exists in multiple universes, Rose and Jack’s love does transcend time and space.” Relieved that I finally had the chance to finish watching the movie that I’d started earlier this morning, I was thoroughly enjoying myself until I noticed something odd.  _ “What the hell is this?” _

“Hmm?” Harry replied distractedly. 

“Is this some weird bootleg porno copy using deepfake tech?” I cried. “Why are Gwyneth Paltrow and Matthew McConaughey in this?”

“Because that’s who’s in the movie,” Harry replied sarcastically without looking up from the phone. “Why, who did you think was in it?”

“Leo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet!”

_ “Who?” _

I screamed. 

I needed to get back to my universe  _ pronto.  _


	5. The Dating Montage

I woke with a start the next morning to find Harry looming over me, shaking my shoulder and holding out a fresh cup of tea.

“You fell asleep watching  _ Brokeback Mountain,” _ he said, taking the seat next to me on the sofa. “You really like romantic films, don’t you?”

“Just doing some research,” I yawned before taking a sip of my tea. My neck was killing me from sleeping at an angle but thankfully my busted cheekbone had already repaired itself (my epic healing powers did have their uses). “What time did you go to bed?”

“I didn’t,” he admitted. “I’ve been up all night reading. I just finished the second book.”

“And what do you think so far?”

Harry thought for a moment before answering. “It’s strange reading your life from someone else’s perspective. It also makes me wonder what possessed the author to have a twelve-year-old single-handedly face off against a Basilisk.”

“It is one of the cooler scenes in the books, but yeah, it’s pretty messed up constantly putting a kid in dangerous situations like that. You’d think the parents would have something to say about it, but we also live in a world where we send our kids to schools that practice active shooter drills, so I doubt they’d bat an eyelid if there was a killer snake on campus.” I took another gulp of tea before speaking again. “Speaking of crazy authors, I guess we ought to make a start on this story of ours.”

“Okay...how do we go about doing that, exactly?”

“Well, now that I’ve managed to convince you to go on a date with me, the next scene will be the dating montage.”

“Right. I guess we better get ready then.”

We spend the morning getting showered and dressed to the nines for the dating montage. Credit where it’s due, Harry had gone to the effort of shaving and trying to comb back his hair to make it look more presentable. He did look pretty hot in his charcoal grey suit and green shirt, and the way he nervously fidgeted with his golden Snitch cufflinks made him all the more endearing. Seemingly satisfied with his appearance, he turned to me and frowned.

“Why are you dressed like that?”

“Like what?”

“I gave you a dress suit to wear, why did you put it on over the top of your tactical clothing?”

“I always wear the red suit,” I explained. “It’s part of my gimmick.”

“It can’t be very comfortable,” he argued. “Wouldn’t you feel better taking it off?”

“We haven’t even gone on our first date yet and already you’re trying to undress me,” I joked. When Harry didn’t laugh (killjoy), I sighed and headed for the bathroom. “Fine, I’ll take off the damn suit.”

“Thank you.”

I returned a couple of minutes later minus the red suit, but still, Harry wasn’t satisfied. “Aren’t you going to take off the mask?”

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked defensively.

“You look like a luchador attending a funeral.” 

I gritted my teeth and suppressed a snarl. I knew that the mask would be an issue. “To unmask a luchador is a sign of humiliation. Do you really want to humiliate me before we go out on our first date?”

Harry remained unmoved. “How am I expected to date you when I don’t even know what you look like?”

“Trust me, you don’t wanna know what’s under the mask.”

“Sure I do! Come on, you can’t be that bad looking.”

“I can assure you that I am.”

Harry crossed his arms. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you take off the mask.”

“Urgh, seriously?”

“Dead serious,” he insisted before adding more gently, “I can promise you that whatever you're hiding under there isn’t going to send me running to the hills. I don’t scare easily.”

Out of excuses, I sighed and began to pull the mask off. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

After removing the mask entirely, I braced myself for Harry to react like most people did by recoiling with disgust. His eyes did widen with shock when he saw my heavily scarred face, but then he gave a careless shrug. “I’ve seen worse.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Somehow I doubt that!”

“You never met Mad-Eye Moody,” he countered. He stepped closer to me to get a better look. His expression was so intense that I felt as though I was standing there in my birthday suit. “You’ve got nice eyes.”

Well, that was unexpected. “Would you mind if I put the mask back on? Because I’m blushing.”

Harry laughed. “Come on, we better get a move on. I booked us a table at a nice Italian restaurant not too far from here.”

“Great, I’m in the mood for meatballs,” I said excitedly, sitting down at the dinner table. In the blink of an eye, we had been transported from Harry’s cottage to Tony’s Restaurant in the local village of Godric’s Hollow. Poor Harry, who was still unaccustomed to this sort of thing, looked around with confusion. 

“What the—how the hell did we get here?”

“It’s the dating montage,” I explained. “It cuts out all of the unnecessary scenes like travelling and gets to the good stuff that the readers are actually interested in.”

“Oh.” Harry took in his new surroundings. “Is it just me or is there something a bit...off about this place?”

“Like what?” I asked, feigning ignorance. 

“Like the fact that it’s already night time when it was early in the afternoon a moment ago,” he pointed out. “And that despite having no recollection of ordering anything, we have a single plate of spaghetti and meatballs between us but no cutlery. Also, why are we sitting in an alleyway instead of inside the restaurant? And  _ where  _ is that music coming from?”

“That’s called a background score,” I explained. “It’s to help set the mood. Ah! Here comes the entertainment.”

At those words, an Italian chef appeared, playing an accordion alongside his sous-chef who strummed on a mandolin. Harry stared open-mouthed with disbelief as the pair began to sing, “ Oh, this is the night, it's a beautiful night! And we call it bella notte. Look at the skies, they have stars in their eyes! On this lovely bella notte.”

“Hold on...are we reenacting the spaghetti scene from  _ Lady and the Tramp _ ?” he asked, scandalized. 

“Looks like it. Guess we better roll with it.” I pushed a meatball with my nose towards Harry and grinned. “Should we do the spaghetti kiss now?”

“I’ve lost my appetite,” he replied flatly, tossing his napkin onto the table. “Let’s go somewhere else, this is stupid.”

Suddenly, Harry found himself in the passenger seat of a top-down convertible with me driving. We tore down a dirt track with the setting sun behind us and Aerosmith’s orchestral version of  _ I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing _ playing softly in the background. We lay on the grassy field of...of grass (sorry, but how else do you expect me to describe it?) having just made love. Harry had a contented expression on his face as he looked lovingly into my eyes.

“Baby,” he said gently as he stroked my face. “Do you think it’s possible that anyone else in the world is doing this very same thing at this very same moment?”

“I hope so,” I replied softly. “Otherwise, what the hell are we trying to save?”

As the music began to swell, Harry pulled me into a passionate kiss. In that moment, all the ills of the world melted away. It was just me and Harry, wrapped up in each other’s arms —

“STOP.” Coming back to his senses, Harry pushed me off of him and sat upright. “What the hell is this supposed to be? And why am I in a dress?”

“It’s the animal cracker scene from  _ Armageddon _ ,” I explained. “AJ and Grace are saying their fond farewell before he goes off into outer space with Bruce Willis. It’s a tale as old as time.”

  
“This date is even worse than the last one.” Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Is this your doing?”

“What? No!” I cried. “I don’t have that kind of power and influence, this is all  _ her.” _

“Well, you can tell her that her dating montage stinks,” he huffed. “Can’t we do something normal that doesn’t involve stuffing animal crackers in my pants?”

It was the middle of the night and Harry sat alone at his pottery wheel. A vintage jukebox in his apartment switched records and  _ Unchained Melody _ by the Righteous Brothers filled the room. I entered (shirtless) and approached him, careful not to disturb Harry as his nimble hands caressed the soft clay like a lover would, learning its curves and edges, teasing them with his dexterous fingers. I sat behind him and reached out with my hand, accidentally ruining his pot, but no matter—we began a new one together, my hands interlacing with his, stroking the wet clay. I started to kiss him and he moaned encouragingly, grinding his ass against my crotch, his breath growing more laboured as the kiss became more heated. Harry turned and leaped into my arms, the pottery wheel abandoned in the heat of passion. 

And that’s when the music scratched and stopped.

Harry groaned with frustration and pulled away from me again. “The pottery wheel scene from  _ Ghost _ ? Seriously?”

“Hey, take it up with The Author. These are not my suggestions.” I couldn’t help the smirk that spread across my face and I sniggered, “Harry Potter doing pottery, though. Harry Potter-y.”

“Oh my god,” Harry groaned and stormed off. “Please stop.”

“What?” I cried after him. “It’s funny!”

And so the dating montage continued. We performed the lift scene from  _ Dirty Dancing _ , but Harry said that he hated that movie, so we waded back to the shore and swiftly moved on to the next scene—the romantic boat ride from  _ The Little Mermaid.  _ Several animated critters sang us a beautiful rendition of ‘Kiss the Girl’, but before we could kiss, we were tipped out of the boat and got soaked again. We tried to recreate the bridge scene between Arwen and Aragorn in  _ The Lord of the Rings _ , but despite both of us speaking fluent Elvish, neither could understand what the other was saying. Personally, my favourite moment was recreating the fake orgasm from  _ When Harry Met Sally _ at  Katz's Delicatessen, but Harry barely cracked a smile (spoilsport). So far, the dating montage wasn’t going great, but you can imagine how psyched I was when, in the next scene, I found myself in the most resplendent sitting room I’d ever laid eyes on. Harry, meanwhile, looked around the room with bemusement.

“Where’s she sent us this time?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” I let my silk robe slide off of my shoulders and pool at my feet, revealing my naked form to Harry in all its mottled glory. Harry responded by shouting in protest and covering his eyes with a sketchpad that had miraculously appeared in his hands.

“You have got to be kidding me!” he shouted.

“Oh, there is no way that we are  _ not  _ doing this scene.” I lay down on the chaise lounge wearing nothing but The Heart of the Ocean fastened around my neck. I cleared my throat and said in my most seductive voice, “I want you to paint me like one of your French girls.”

“How many more of these scenes do we have to suffer?” Harry despaired.

“As many as it takes.”

“Urgh. Look, I can’t just —can you put some clothes on while I’m talking to you?”

I clicked my tongue impatiently but complied with his request. I pulled on the silk robe again and sat cross-legged on the chaise lounge. “What’s wrong this time?”

Harry peered over the top of the sketchbook and when he saw that I was dressed again, he discarded it onto the floor. “The whole point of this dating montage is for you and me to fall for one another, right?”

“Yes…”

“Well, this... _ thing _ that we’re doing,” he said, waving his hand at the room. “It isn’t working for me.”

“Which part?”

“Any of it,” he admitted. “It’s just too forced. Falling in love, it...it takes time. We need to get to know each other first, find out if we have anything in common.”

“You’re a former child soldier and I’m a failed government experiment—we’ve got  _ loads  _ in common!” I cried. “We’ve had terrible parental figures, suffered clinical depression, we’ve both died on several occasions...I mean, the list goes on.”

“Shared trauma doesn’t a healthy relationship make,” Harry argued. “If we’re going to do this thing, I want to do it properly.”

“Properly?” I asked, confused. “Like, going on real dates?”

“Exactly! Actually spend some time talking to one another and let things happen at their own pace instead of having romantic scenes shoe-horned in just for the sake of it.”

“Hmm, I don’t think the audience would be too pleased if we did that,” I warned. 

“I can’t just force myself to fall in love with you for the convenience of plot,” said Harry. “I’m sorry, but clearly, I’m just not written that way.”

Naturally, I was skeptical about this proposal. “What happens if you get to know me and you realize that you hate my guts?”

“We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it.”

I sighed and slumped back in the chair. “So, what do you suggest we do?”

“Let’s go back to the cottage, get back into our own clothes and start afresh tomorrow,” he suggested. “But this time, we’ll do it my way. No interference from The Author this time.”

I turned to The Author and asked, “What do you think?”

(Author) Sounds good to me.

I frowned. “You’re not putting up much of a fight. What’s gotten into you?”

(Author) Nothing. I’m quite happy to let Harry take the lead on things.

“Hold on,” I said slowly. “Did you deliberately screw up this dating montage?”

(Author) Why on earth would I do that?

“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied sarcastically. “Maybe it’s your twisted way of manipulating Harry into courting me properly?”

(Author) Let’s say that was my intention, it worked like a charm, didn’t it?

“You are diabolical.”

(Author) Thank you. 

I rolled my eyes and turned back to Harry. “The Author says she’s happy for you to take the lead on things.”

Harry smiled. “Great. Let’s get the hell out of here, the boat’s due to sink any minute.”

Harry and I took a lifeboat back to dry land before mounting a tandem bike and cycling through the Parisian countryside. It was a beautiful day with French accordion music playing in the background. Harry glanced down at himself to find that he was now wearing a blue and white striped t-shirt and a cravat. 

“What’s the point of this?” 

“There isn’t one,” I admitted. “The Author wanted to include this scene in the story but she had nowhere else to put it.”

Harry sighed and shook his head. “Whatever floats her boat, I guess.” He was silent for a moment before he added, “You suit the beret and moustache, by the way.”

Even if he was only joking, I couldn’t help but smile. We rode off into the sunset, determined that tomorrow would be less of a screw-up than this day had been. 


	6. The First Date 2.0: The Date Returns

I’m not ashamed to say that this was virgin territory for me. It may come as a surprise to some of you but I don’t get asked out on many dates. Shocking, right? I mean, who  _ wouldn’t  _ want to wine and dine someone with my rugged good looks and an equally irresistible personality? Still, it had been a long time since I’d gone out on a date, and boy, did it show. I figured that I ought to get Harry a little something since it was our first official date together, but when I came back from the store with a box of Trojans and a bottle of lube (because  _ somebody  _ had to remember to buy some), The Author took offence and transformed it into a bouquet of flowers.

“Roses?” I sneered. “How generic.”

(Author) You think so? Okay...what about lilies?

“I dunno, there’s something a bit Oedipal about that.”

(Author) Gross. Alright, scratch the flowers. I have a better idea.

A plain cardboard box appeared on the guest bed. I peeked inside and nodded approvingly. “Much better.”

(Author) How are you feeling about the date?

“Peachy. There’s just the fate of our very existence riding on its success, so no pressure.” 

(Author) Exciting, isn’t it?

“Maybe for you,” I grumbled. “And the sadistic readers who get a kick out of that sort of thing.”

There was a polite knock at the door and Harry called, “Are you ready to go?”

“Almost.” 

I checked my reflection in the vanity mirror a final time, giving my maroon tie a slight adjustment before snatching the box off of the bed and heading for the door. Harry stood waiting for me out in the corridor, looking even more apprehensive than he did on our previous date. He pointed at the box in my hand.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, just a little gift to commemorate our first proper date together.” I held it out to him. “I wanted to give you something more practical but I figured you’d like this.”

Harry opened the box and smiled. “Treacle tart.”

“It’s your favourite, isn’t it?”

Harry nodded and suddenly looked bashful. My god, it was adorable. “It is. That’s really thoughtful of you, thank you.”

“No problem.” I grinned at him and clapped my hands together, “So, are you ready for The First Date 2.0: The Date Returns?”

Harry let out a nervous laugh and nodded. It was a relief to see some of the tension ease in his shoulders. “Yeah, I plan on steering clear of sinking ships and pottery wheels this time.”

“Disappointing, but I’m willing to go with the flow,” I said, following him out of the cottage and down the garden path. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“It’s a surprise.” Harry opened the wooden gate at the end of the path and beckoned me through. “But since you’re such a big fan of the books, I think you’ll like it.”

“Ooh, colour me intrigued!” Harry held out his hand to me and I took a firm hold of it. “Please tell me that we’re going to skip down the street together hand in hand.”

A mischievous grin tugged at the corners of Harry’s lips. “Mmm, not quite. Take a deep breath and brace yourself.”

Before I had the chance to register his words, I felt Harry’s arm twist away from me, so I redoubled my grip on him. The next thing I knew, everything went black. The ground fell away beneath my feet, but rather than fall, I felt as though I was being forced through a juice press. I tried to shout, but the air had been forced from my lungs and then, just as suddenly, my feet hit hard ground again and I gulped in lungfuls of cold air. I opened my eyes to find the cottage was long gone. Instead, Harry and I were standing on a quiet city street beneath a rail bridge. 

“Holy shit” I rasped, staggering sideways. “Why would anyone think that’s a viable form of travel?!”

Harry lurched forward and grabbed my shoulders before I stumbled into a brick wall. “Sorry, I thought you’d prefer Side-Along Apparition to using the Floo network.”

“That was way worse,” I argued before relenting, “It’s still better than flying Delta, though.”

“Next time we can use broomsticks,” he offered. 

“Or call an Uber,” I suggested. Once the nausea passed, I took the chance to take in my new surroundings and realized that we were standing outside of a restaurant called Tacos El Pastor. “Ooh, tacos! Hey, isn’t this one of the filming locations for  _ Prisoner of Azkaban _ ?”

Harry frowned. “I dunno, I haven’t finished that book yet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I shrugged. “Mexican food is great but don’t expect me to bottom for you tonight. Unless you’re into  _ that  _ sort of thing.”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Duly noted. Also, I hate to break it to you but the restaurant is closed,” I said, pointing to the closed sign hanging in the window. “But I’m still up for tacos if you are? There must be somewhere nearby that’s open that we can check out.”

But Harry smiled and shook his head. “O ye, of little faith.” He pushed on the restaurant door and to my surprise, it opened. Harry held it open for me. “Come on, then.”

I’ve done plenty of breaking and entering in my day, and seeing Harry’s criminal streak first hand was quite the turn on. The prospect of eating stolen tacos was equally desirable, so I eagerly followed Harry into the restaurant, but as I passed the threshold, my mouth fell open with shock. Gone was the generic boho chic decor of the taco restaurant. Instead, I was standing in a very dark and shabby pub with mismatched furniture, illuminated only by candles floating overhead. A broomstick brushed past, sweeping the dust-strewn floor of its own accord while a centaur stood at the bar mouthing off about the exorbitant price of a trough of beer. 

“This is the Leaky Cauldron,” I said with a note of awe. 

Harry looked quite pleased with himself. “I hoped that you’d recognize it. Come on, I called ahead and Tom’s reserved a private booth for us.”

He waved at Tom the innkeeper, who scurried from behind the bar, abandoning the disgruntled centaur mid-sentence, to come and greet them. He took Harry’s hand into his own and gave it a firm shake. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Potter!”

“It’s good to see you too, Tom,” Harry greeted him. “I hope that you’ve been keeping well.”

“Oh yes, business is booming,” he said, casting a hand over the near-empty pub.

Harry nodded and put his hand on my shoulder. “Tom, I’d like you to meet my friend, Wade Wilson.”

Tom grabbed my hand and grinned a wide, toothless smile. “Welcome to The Leaky Cauldron, Mr. Wilson! Mr. Potter said that you’ve only just arrived in England.”

“Oh yeah,” I smirked. “I’ve travelled quite the distance to get here.”

“I must say, this is a first,” Tom noted excitedly. “We’ve never had one of your kind in here before.”

My smile faltered. “What do you mean by that?”

“A Muggle!” he exclaimed. “Usually, they just walk past the pub without batting an eye. You’re not the most observant bunch, no offence.”

“Oh. Well, none taken.”

Tom released my hand and ushered us to follow him. “Your table’s this way, gentlemen. Do you have any dietary requirements? Any allergies?”

Harry did a good job ignoring the other patrons who stared at him as he walked past while I took my opportunity to brag and point out that I was his date for the evening. 

“Hot date, coming through!” I cried, steering Harry’s shoulders through the maze of chairs and tables towards the back of the pub. “‘Scuse me. Make way. Yes, Harry Potter is wining and dining me this evening, but only after he practically begged me to go out with him.”

Harry rolled his eyes but the smile on his face told me that he thought it was a  _ little  _ bit funny. And thank god for that, because I need someone who actually appreciates my great sense of humour. Once Tom had us tucked away safely from prying eyes in the corner of the pub, he magicked us a couple of drinks and hurried into the kitchen to get our food. Harry nervously picked the label of his bottle of Butterbeer as he spoke.

“So…” he began awkwardly. “I thought once we’ve had a bite to eat, I could show you around Diagon Alley. Since we don’t know how long you’re going to be stuck here, I figured you should get to know the area. Also, Florean Fortescue’s does the best ice cream in London. Well,”—Harry’s expression darkened—“Florean doesn’t actually run the parlour anymore, the new owners just kept the name. But the ice cream’s still nice.”

“Sounds like fun.” I downed the rest of my Firewhisky and was pleased to see the empty tumbler immediately refill. I could get used to this. “So, do you take all of your dates here?”

Harry huffed out a laugh. “No. Truth be told, I don’t go out on many dates.”

“Why not?” 

Harry shrugged. “I’m too busy with work to have a relationship.”

I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Your besties seem to maintain a good work-life balance in their relationship.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because Ron and Hermione were already dating before they started working at the Ministry,” he explained. 

“Right. And it’s got nothing to do with the fact that you’re afraid that anyone who shows an interest in dating you just wants to date you because you’re famous?” 

“Why does this feel more like an interrogation than a date?” Harry asked tersely. 

“I’m just trying to get to know you,” I reasoned. “That’s the point of this date, isn’t it?”

“Oh really? Well, those bloody books of yours ought to tell you everything that you need to know,” he snapped. “Why don’t you consult them instead of speaking to me?”

Oops, I definitely touched a nerve there. Damn, I really was rusty at this dating business. Bad move, Deadpool. I took a protracted drink from my tumbler before adding, “If it’s any consolation, I don’t go out on many dates either.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Harry muttered.

Ignoring the jibe, I continued, “It’s true. You know, I once had a date knock me out with a shovel and bury me alive.”

Despite himself, Harry’s eyes widened with shock. “Really?”

“Yup.” 

“Wow, that sounds awful. When you escaped, what did you do?”

I chuckled to myself. “I married her.”

_ “Seriously?” _

“As serious as cancer.” 

Harry took a moment to digest this information. “I don’t know what surprises me more: that you married her  _ specifically  _ or that you got married to anyone.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You don’t seem like the marrying type.”

“Oh god, I’ve been married almost as often as I’ve died,” I laughed, but when I saw the bemused expression on Harry’s face I added quickly, “Not that I’m married  _ now _ . I’m single and ready to mingle, preferably with you.” I took another sip of my drink. “And that isn’t even the worst date I’ve been on. One of my exes, Shiklah, was Dracula’s succubus—”

“Hold up,” Harry cut in. “Dracula? The real one?”

“Oh yeah! Well, when I first met Shiklah, she tried to kill me—several times, in fact—but when she realized that she couldn’t, we kind of hit it off.”

Harry looked morbidly fascinated as I laid bare the long and complicated history of my love life. I figured if we’re going to be dating, I might as well be honest with him about these things, even if it didn’t always paint me in a favourable light. But even after I told him about my torrid love affair with a colossal four-eyed alien, Harry still hadn’t thrown in the towel and fled the pub. If anything, he looked relieved.

“Wow,” he sighed. “And I thought my date with Cho at Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop was bad.”

“That was still pretty horrendous,” I argued and the colour drained from Harry’s face.

“Don’t tell me  _ that’s  _ in the books,” he croaked. 

“Book five,” I confirmed. “And in excruciating detail. Sorry, dude.” 

Harry shook his head and sighed. “Ah well. I suppose I should count my blessings that Cho never tried to murder me. Although she probably thought about it after that date.”

Despite a rocky start to the evening, the next couple of hours flew by. Once Harry had relaxed, he was a lot more talkative; he told me about his job, his friends, his hobbies...he even opened up about some of his own nightmare dating experiences. 

“Well, it wasn’t so much a date as a tumble in a broom cupboard,” he admitted. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“You and Draco Malfoy, bumping uglies in a broom closet,” I sighed wistfully. “It’s the stuff that dreams are made of.”

Harry scrunched up his nose in distaste. “Hardly. We were both blind drunk and promised never to discuss it again. Not my finest moment but you know what office Christmas parties are like.”

We would have to agree to disagree on that. Once we finished our meals at The Leaky, we grabbed a couple of ice creams and took our time wandering down Diagon Alley. Harry eagerly showed me the owl emporium and explained that’s where Hagrid had bought him Hedwig for his eleventh birthday. And as we passed Gringotts, he pointed to the roof and told me that he’d once flown a Ukranian Ironbelly right through the ceiling and out of the bank. Of course, I already knew all of this, but I liked listening to Harry tell me about it. There was something captivating about the way his eyes lit up as he described the first time he’d ever set foot in the magical cobblestoned street. I believe the kids call it catching feels and it was a little unnerving how quickly it was happening. But by the way Harry kept catching my eye and brushing his hand against mine, I had high hopes that the feeling was mutual. 

As the shops began to shut up and the evening drew to a close, Harry suggested that we call it a night. I grudgingly accepted that we’d have to Apparate home because it would take three hours to get back to the cottage by Uber. But I must admit, Apparating wasn’t as bad the second time around now that I knew what to expect. In the blink of an eye, Diagon Alley vanished and Harry’s cottage reappeared in front of us. I looked down to see that Harry and I were still holding hands, and even though it was no longer necessary, I was suddenly reluctant to let him go. 

Regretfully, Harry’s hand slid from mine so that he could open the wooden gate that led up the short path towards the cottage. We walked up the path side by side, suddenly at a loss for what to say to one another, coming to a stop at the front door. We turned to face each other and Harry smiled at me.

“Well, I hope that date was better than the one where you were buried alive,” he half-joked. 

“It was definitely one of the better ones,” I replied coyly. “Better than that terrible dating montage The Author had us go through.”

Harry’s smile faded. “Yeah. I almost forgot that’s why we were doing this in the first place.”

“Yeah, me too,” I admitted quietly. “You know, the events around us meeting might be a little screwy—”

“That’s putting it mildly,” he mumbled.

“But I still had a really good time tonight,” I said sincerely. “Just because the circumstances of us being here are ever-so-slightly predestined doesn’t mean that we can’t enjoy it.”

Harry sighed and bowed his head. “I guess you’re right. I should take your advice and just try to go with the flow.”

I took a step closer to Harry and took hold of his hand. “Whoever said the path of least resistance was the wrong path to take?” 

Harry looked up at me then, his expression both nervous and determined. In one fluid motion, Harry’s free hand slid around the back of my neck and pulled me closer, pressing our lips together in a tentative kiss. It took all of my willpower not to tear off my clothes and jump his bones right there and then in the flowerbed of begonias. Instead, I showed some restraint and decorum, returning the kiss with equal enthusiasm, entwining our fingers together as Harry deepened the kiss. Despite it being somewhat tentative, there was something heated behind it, and the look Harry gave me when he pulled away told me that he had more on his mind than a quick make-out session under the stars. 

“Would you like to come inside for a cup of coffee?” he asked.

“I’m already staying here,” I reminded him. 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fair point. In that case, would you like to go to bed with me?”

I grinned. “Now you’re talking.”

Harry smiled and pulled me in for another quick kiss before fumbling with the keys to open the door. When we entered the cottage, Harry began to pull off his coat and kick off his shoes. Just as I was about to close the front door behind me, I felt something heavy fill my pocket that hadn’t been there moments before. I turned out my pocket to find a box of condoms and (thank god) a large bottle of lube. I looked to the heavens and smiled.

“Oh, you…”

(Author) Did you really think I’d forget? You boys have fun. 

“Thank you!” I cried before slamming the door shut and pouncing on Harry. I was beginning to think that being stuck in this universe wasn’t so bad, after all. 


	7. The Inevitable Break-Up

After Harry and I went on our epic first date, The Author went quiet.

_Too_ quiet.

Seriously, I tried getting her attention multiple times but she just ignored me—for _months_. I probably should have been more annoyed by this, but honestly, it was kind of nice—liberating, even. Left to our own devices, Harry and I just carried on as normal. We went on a few more dates before making our relationship official. It took Ron and Hermione some time to warm to me, but I think they were just relieved that Harry was happy. We quickly fell into a comfortable routine. I hung up the pistols and retired from mercenary work, and with Harry’s help, I finally got the chance to fulfill a childhood dream of mine: running my very own cat cafe. I’d spend my days selling cupcakes and petting kittens, and then I’d go home at night and snuggle up on the sofa with Harry, watching romantic comedies. Dumbledore checked in with us every so often, keeping us updated on the Unspeakables’ efforts to get me home, but so far, nothing concrete had been achieved. Turns out transdimensional travel was difficult to master, even in the fictional literary universe. It was disappointing to hear, but all things considered, life was pretty sweet. For the first time in my life, I had nobody scripting my every move. My life was finally my own, and damn did it feel good.

As the months passed and Christmas fast approached, Harry and I decided that we’d rather spend the holidays in the conveniently secluded cabin that we’d recently purchased. It was a picture-perfect Christmas Eve. After a hellish week at work, Harry and I absconded to our secret cabin in the woods to celebrate our first Christmas together. Nobody knew where we were (well, except Ron and Hermione, of course) and the first thing that we did once we lit a log fire was tear off all of our clothes and fall into bed as one, our passion for one another burning like the flames in the fireplace. Now, we lay wrapped in each other’s arms in front of a roaring fire, admiring the twinkling lights of the beautifully decorated Christmas tree in the corner of the room—

“Hold up,” I said suddenly. “Haven’t we done this scene already?”

Harry propped himself up on his elbows and frowned. “Yeah, this all seems oddly familiar. Can two people experience déjà vu at the same time?”

I shook my head. “This isn’t déjà vu. This is something else. Something way more insidious.” 

Without warning, a huge Catherine wheel portal burst into existence in front of the Christmas tree. Harry yelped and scrambled for his wand, but I grabbed his wrist and lowered his arm. As I suspected, none other than Doctor Stephen Strange appeared through the portal and sauntered into the cabin. He looked down at Harry and I lying naked on the hearth rug and cocked an eyebrow.

“Did I come at a bad time?” he asked.

“Yeah, you could say that. I’m on vacation,” I drawled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Strange frowned at me. “I came to bring you home, of course. I figured a year stuck in this universe was punishment enough.”

My stomach dropped. Of course, I’d almost forgotten that this whole story started with Strangey throwing a hissy fit and dumping me here in the first place. I looked at Harry, whose expression was resigned and he shrugged.

“We both knew that this day would come eventually. I just hoped that...well. At least you’ll get home in time for Christmas.”

“Home to what?” I cried. “My life is here with you.”

Harry’s eyes welled with tears. “I know. I don't want you to leave but we know that this is the way that it has to be.”

“But who’ll feed the kittens at the cafe?” I argued. “Who’ll make you tasty tacos just the way that you like them? Who’s going to laugh at my jokes?”

“You need to go,” Harry insisted. “Remember what Dumbledore said about the Romantic Comedy Formula—after we get together, there comes the inevitable break-up.”

“But I don’t want to break up with you,” I croaked. 

Harry took hold of my hand and gave it a tight squeeze. “I don’t want to break up with you either, but we have to in order for the story to progress. Once we break up, there’ll be another montage with some soul-searching and sad music playing in the background, and then, if all goes well, we’ll find each other again.”

“This is a really heart-wrenching moment, but could you please put on some clothes?” Strange cut in, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. 

“Hey!” I snapped, rounding on him. “You’re the one that came barging in here without an invitation. If you don’t like us sitting here butt naked having a moment, you can get lost!”

Ignoring the scandalized expression on Strange’s face, Harry grabbed his wand and with the flick of his wrist we were fully dressed again. Pocketing his wand, he sighed and got to his feet. “Wade, I’m not happy about this either, but you and I both know that if we don’t let the storyline progress, we’ll be stuck in limbo forever. We need to do this.”

“This is bullshit!” I shouted. “Who makes up the rules for how a romantic comedy should progress?”

_“She_ does,” said Harry. “Besides, we made a deal. If we renege, there’s no telling what she’ll do.”   
  


As much as I hated to admit it, I knew that Harry was right. I looked between him and Strange, trying desperately to think of a loophole of some kind, but I knew there wasn’t one. Defeated, my shoulders sagged and I buried my face in my hands. “I hate this.”

“Me too,” said Harry mournfully, pulling me into a tight hug as I started to cry. “It won’t be forever. We’ll find each other again.”

Strange checked his watch and sighed. “Are you about done here? I’ve got more important things to do than chauffeur you across the multiverse.”

“Give us a minute!” Harry snapped. He pulled my cell phone out of his pocket and pressed it into my hand. “An early Christmas present: I enchanted it so that you’ll never need to charge it again.”

I sniffed loudly and slipped the phone into my pocket. “Thank you.”

“One more thing before you go,” he said, hurrying towards the Christmas tree. He rummaged through the pile of gifts and grabbed a small box wrapped in emerald green paper. Holding it out to me, he said, “I’d intended on giving this to you on Christmas morning, but…well, since we’re so short of time, I want to give it to you now.”

Curious, I tore off the wrapping paper to reveal a black velvet ring box. My heart began pounding painfully in my chest. Sure enough, when I opened the box, inside was an engagement ring. 

“Harry…”

“This past year has been the craziest year of my life, and that’s really saying something,” he declared. “But it’s also been the happiest time in my life, and that’s all because of you. You make me feel safe, and loved, and you make me laugh, every single day. I know that the circumstances around us meeting are predestined, but I still choose you. I’ll always choose you, Wade, because I love you.”

I looked down at the ring, feeling light-headed at the depth of Harry’s words. “You know, it’s only now that I realize that I’d never experienced true happiness before. I put on a good show of it for the readers, but I was never truly happy. Not until I met you.”

“So, it’s a yes?” Harry asked keenly. “Will you marry me?”

“Of course, I will!” I cried, laughing as tears streamed down my cheeks. “Yes. A thousand times yes.” 

Relief swept across Harry’s face and he pulled me in for a passionate kiss as the orchestral music swelled in the background. Strange looked around with a confused expression.

“Where is that music coming from?” he asked, but we ignored him. This was our moment and we weren’t going to let that Vincent Price wannabe ruin it for us. Reluctantly, I broke the kiss, but I clung to Harry like my life depended on it.

“Even if it takes me forever, I’ll find you again,” I promised. “I love you.”

(Author) Okay, STOP. Please, just stop.

Harry and Doctor Strange both flinched and looked up at the ceiling in surprise.

“Who the hell is _that?”_ Harry asked.

“Wait. You can hear her?” I gasped.

“Obviously, we can hear her, whoever _she_ is,” Strange sneered, covering his ears. “It’s difficult to avoid the disembodied voice booming in our ears!”

I looked up towards the heavens and there was The Author, looking down at me with puffy red eyes and dabbing her nose with a tissue. “Where the hell have you been?”

(Author) Me? I’ve been here the whole time.

“Then why have you been ignoring my calls?” I raged.

(Author) You looked like you and Harry were getting on fine without me. I didn’t want to disturb you.

“Then why are you here now?”

(Author) Well...okay, I was going to write a few extra chapters about you going back to your universe, detailing how miserable and depressed you were without Harry. I had every intention of returning you to this world so that you’d have a tearful reunion but...oh, after writing that declaration of love between the two of you, I just can’t do it. You boys have been through such a rough time of it already, it would be cruel of me to separate you when you’ve finally found true happiness with each other. 

Moved by her own words, The Author started to cry again. Strange frowned. “Excuse me, but I didn’t understand _any_ of that. Who are we talking to right now? And what are they talking about—are they writing some kind of story? And what’s it got to do with me?”

“It’s a long story,” I sighed. 

Harry tentatively rose his hand. “Excuse me, Miss...sorry, I don’t know what to call you.”

(Author) Just call me Mrs M. 

“Okay, Mrs M. Why can I hear you now when I haven’t been able to before?” 

(Author) Because I _want_ you to hear me now. 

“Oh.”

(Author) That’s one of the benefits of being a writer, you’re basically God. It’s pretty cool but it’s a big responsibility, you know? I try not to abuse it. 

“Okay. Um, if you don’t mind me asking, how does this affect the deal that we made? We’ve done everything that you’ve asked. Does this mean that you’re still going to hold up your end of the bargain?”

(Author) Of course. Your cooperation in this story will of course be rewarded. You both want to be mortal, right?

“Uh, yeah.”

(Author) Done.

Harry blinked. “That’s it?”

(Author) Yup.

“Huh.”

(Author) What’s the matter?

“Nothing, I just thought it would be more dramatic.”

(Author) Do you _want_ it to be more dramatic? Because I can add some lightning and suspenseful music for effect.

But Harry shook his head. “No, no. This is fine, thank you.”

“And what about the other part?” I asked. “The part where we forget that we’re fictional characters?”

Strange’s eyes widened with shock. “What do you mean, ‘we’re fictional characters’?” 

(Author) Sure thing. I can do it right now, if you’d like?

“Really?” I asked hopefully. “Just like that, the story is over with?”

(Author) Of course. This is my story, I can do whatever the hell I want.

I couldn’t believe it. The moment I had dreamed of was finally here. Suddenly, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. “Wow. Okay, um…is there anything that needs to be done before we do this thing?” 

(Author) Not really. I just want you to be fully aware of what you’re letting yourself in for before you make your decision. 

“What do you mean?” I asked cautiously.

(Author) Well, you could go home to your own universe, if you really want to. Of course, that means that you and Harry will never see each other again, and once you leave, you’ll both forget that the other person existed. 

“Well, that sounds particularly appealing,” I mused. “What’s option two?”

(Author) You stay here with Harry and you’ll become fully integrated into this universe, so much so that you’ll forget everything about your previous life. 

“I’ll forget all about being a failed government experiment that suffers from clinical depression thanks to a crippling existential crisis?”

(Author) Yes.

“And I’ll get to spend the rest of my life in the company of the man that I love, petting kittens and baking cakes every day?”

(Author) I take that you’ve already made your mind up.

I turned to Harry and we smiled at each other. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna stick around here for a while, thanks.”

“Does that mean that I leave now?” Strange asked irritably. 

(Author) Oh. Yes, you can go now. 

“Thank god for that,” he grumbled, opening up a portal and disappearing without a parting word. Harry and I looked up towards the Author.

“If you don’t mind, Wade and I are ready to forget now,” said Harry.

(Author) Alright...you know, once I do this, you’ll forget about me too, of course. 

“We know.”

(Author) Cool. Well, I just wanted to take the opportunity to say that I’m a really big fan of both of you. It’s been an honour and a pleasure to write your story.

I winked at The Author. “Don’t mention it. And you know what? This story isn’t half bad. You should consider going professional.”

(Author) Why, thank you. Oh man, I’m really going to miss you guys.

“Hmm, I can’t say the feeling’s mutual,” said Harry.

(Author) That’s fair. Okay, let’s do this thing, shall we?

“Do we have to do anything to trigger it?” I asked.

(Author) You only have to kiss, of course.

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at that. “A magic kiss. You had to squeeze in one last trope, didn’t you?”

(Author) Naturally.

“Okay.” Harry and I held hands and looked into each other's eyes. “Are you ready?”

Without hesitation, Harry lurched forward and kissed me. The moment our lips touched, the rest of the world melted away. It was like it was just me and Harry in a world of our own, and it was perfect. And this kiss...it felt different, somehow. Like we were kissing each other for the first time again. When he pulled away, Harry slowly opened his eyes and frowned.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine. It’s just…” Harry looked around the cabin. “I dunno, I feel like I’ve just experienced déjà vu, or something. I can’t quite describe it.”

“You know what...now that you mention it, I have the same feeling,” I said slowly, feeling slightly discombobulated.

“Really?” 

I nodded. “Yeah. I feel like we were just talking to someone, too.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah, weird…” Pushing the strange feeling aside, I turned my attention back to Harry and wiggled my eyebrows at him. “I bet what you’re experiencing is simply an overwhelming sense of desire when you lay your eyes upon me.”

Harry grinned and slung his arms over my shoulders. “Yeah, it’s probably just that.”

“I mean, I am quite the catch,” I joked. “With my rugged good looks and my great sense of humour. And I’m so charming, it’s a wonder that anyone can resist me—”

Harry pressed his index finger to my lips and I fell silent. He knew all too well that I used humour as a defence mechanism when I was feeling insecure. Typical that my saboteur should rear its ugly head today of all days, and right after Harry had just proposed to me. Of course, I said yes. But sometimes, I still had my doubts that I was good enough for him. Harry, however, always knew exactly what to say to put me at ease. 

“I think you're beautiful,” he whispered with such sincerity that I couldn’t help but believe him. 

I pulled him close and kissed him soundly, the strange moment that we had both experienced all but forgotten. As we cuddled up on the sofa and watched the fire burn to embers, Harry asked, “Do you ever think about the day we met?” 

“Not really,” I admitted. “I prefer to think about the here and now.”

“And what do you think about that?”

I smiled to myself and kissed the crown of Harry’s head. “That life is pretty sweet.”

And you know what? It was. 


	8. The Unnecessary Epilogue

Deadpool sat on the sofa watching the credits roll on  _ Titanic _ . After wiping a solitary tear from his masked face, he sighed contentedly and switched off the television. It was only then that he noticed that someone was still reading this story.

“You’re still here?” he asked, confused. “It’s over. Go home! Oh, you’re expecting to know what happened to Wade and Harry after the story ended. Well, they lived happily ever after, of course. Don’t look at me like that, we’ve already established that there are multiple versions of me out there, so the fact that there’s two Deadpools in this story shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise.”

There was a long, awkward pause as the reader expected Deadpool to do something. He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Still not had your fill of this story, huh? What did you expect— _ another _ chapter? Well, we don’t have that kind of time or money. May I remind you that this is fanfiction? You’re enjoying free content that the author’s put their heart and soul into for no monetary reward, and you want  _ more? _ Damn, you just wanna milk that cow dry for everything’s it worth, don’t ya? Not that I can blame you; this story is a veritable classic. I helped to write it, you know. Yeah, I’m trying to move away from acting and get into writing my own stories. I’ve dabbled in a few genres but I really feel like queer erotica is my forte.”

Deadpool twiddled his thumbs and waited patiently for the reader to leave, but they just kept reading, expecting more to happen.

“I don’t know what else you want me to tell you—the story’s finished. There’s nothing else for me to do!” He sighed and crossed his arms. “I will admit that I’m disappointed I never got the chance to shoot Dolores Umbridge. I knew that it was a long shot being able to fit that into the story, but still, I would have loved the chance to wipe that smug smile off of that stupid toad face of hers.”

Suddenly, Deadpool gasped and leaped to his feet. “Now there’s an idea!” He checked his watch again. “There’s still time to do it before the story ends. Those of you who’ve seen the post-credit scenes in my movies will appreciate this. Come on…” Deadpool drew his pistols out of his holsters and cocked them. “Let’s Leeroy Jenkins this epilogue.”

* * *

Harry sat in the courtroom, nervously picking the arm of his chair as Minister Fudge and the other members of the Wizengamot glared down at him. His future at Hogwarts depended on the success of this hearing. If he were somehow acquitted, then he could go back to school and continue to practice magic. But if he were found guilty…the thought made Harry sick to his stomach.

“The Chair recognizes Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Under-Secretary to the Minister,” said Fudge.

A squat little witch that looked more toad than human spoke in a fluttery, girlish, high-pitched voice that took Harry aback; he had been expecting a croak.

“I’m sure that I must have misunderstood you, Professor Dumbledore,” she simpered. “So silly of me. But it sounded for a teensy moment as though you were suggesting that the Ministry of Magic had ordered an attack on thi—”

Umbridge’s words were cut off mid-sentence by a loud crash. Everyone’s heads whipped around to see the courtroom door fly open, and all were surprised to see a masked man in a red leather suit enter with two pistols drawn. Before Fudge or anyone else could protest at the interruption, Deadpool fired off two shots. One struck Fudge in the groin, and he bent over double, groaning in pain. The other hit Umbridge square in the forehead. She looked momentarily surprised as the bullet entered her head and exploded out of the back of her skull, spraying several members of the Wizengamot in red mist. There was a moment of shocked silence and time seemed to stand still for a moment, then Umbridge slumped forward, her face hitting the desk in front of her with a deafening thud.

“Woooooo!” Deadpool cried with glee and danced on the spot.  _ “Man, _ that felt good! Take that, you evil old hag! The world’s a brighter place without you and your hideous cat plates. And screw you, Fudge! The only reason I shot your pecker and not your face is because you’re still integral to the plot at this point!”

(Author) Actually, Umbridge is one of the main characters in this book.

“Silence!” Deadpool cried. “Don’t mess with my witty comebacks. My logic is infallible.”

(Author) But in Book Seven, she has the locket Horcrux—

“Infallible!” Deadpool insisted. 

Fudge groaned feebly as several people hurried to his side to provide assistance. As Deadpool turned to leave, he smiled and winked at Harry, who had remained rooted to his chair the entire time, looking terrified.

“Sorry to scare you like that, kid. Believe me, it was for the best.” As he headed for the exit, Deadpool nodded to Professor Dumbledore. “Gay Gandalf.”

“Mr. Wilson,” said Dumbledore brightly, his eyes twinkling with delight at the trail of destruction The Merc with the Mouth had left in his wake.

As Deadpool exited the courtroom, he turned his attention to the reader. “I can’t have been the only one to find that satisfying. Now, I know what you’re thinking— _ but Deadpool, won’t killing off Umbridge mess with the timeline and create some kind of paradox? _ Well, if you’re familiar with my earlier work, you’ll know that doesn’t matter. We’re doing this purely for entertainment and to sate your more homicidal tendencies. The chapter isn’t titled The Unnecessary Epilogue for nothing. If you don’t like it, feel free to bail, I won’t take it personally. But if you want to continue on this journey into the absurd, what d'ya say we pay a visit to some other well-deserving characters in this universe?”

* * *

It was the night that Voldemort’s servant was finally revealed after twelve long years of hiding in plain sight. Peter Pettigrew lay quivering on the floor at Harry’s feet, relieved beyond belief that James’s son had shown him mercy where his friends could not.

“He can go to Azkaban,” said Harry, pointing at Pettigrew. “If anyone deserves that place, he does…”

Sirius and Remus looked at one another, staggered at Harry’s act of clemency. Still, they lowered their wands.

“Very well,” said Remus. “Stand aside Harry. I’m going to tie him up.”

That was the moment Deadpool chose to burst into the room. Guns drawn, he shot Pettigrew once in the face and twice in the heart for good measure, popping off another shot in the crotch just for the hell of it. Sirius and Remus pointed their wands at Deadpool in alarm, but he holstered his guns and held his hands up.

“Whoa, mind where you’re pointing those! They can be dangerous!”

Sirius prodded Pettigrew’s lifeless body with the tip of his toe. “Bloody hell, he’s dead!”

“What have you done?” Remus cried. 

“I just did you a favour,” said Deadpool. “That little shit would have turned back into a rat and scurried back to Voldie if I hadn’t intervened. Dead or alive, you now have proof of Sirius’s innocence, so it’s a win-win.” He turned to leave and then he paused. “Oh! And another thing—Remus, you forgot to take your potion tonight. So you better stay here for the night so that you don’t get all hungry like the wolf on the kids.”

What little colour Remus held in his face drained. “Oh my god, he’s right. I was in such a hurry to get here that I forgot to take my Wolfsbane potion.”

“You’re welcome!” Deadpool cried as he skipped out of the Shrieking Shack. 

* * *

Professor Snape sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d spent the entire evening marking first-year students’ homework and not a single one of them showed an aptitude for Potions. Pulling another submission towards him, Snape’s eyes narrowed when he recognized Harry Potter’s chicken scratch handwriting. He only gave it a cursory glance over before dabbing his quill in ink and drawing a large  _ F  _ on the paper.

_ Knock knock. _

Snape looked up from his work and frowned—who was interrupting him at this hour? Sliding out from behind his desk, he glided towards the office door. He half-hoped that it was a student just so that he could have an excuse to give them detention. As he pulled down the handle, whoever was behind the door kicked it hard, causing the door to swing back and hit Snape on the nose. Pain exploded across his face and stars danced across his vision as he stumbled backwards onto his backside. The assailant entered the room and loomed over Snape.

“Mind if I come in?” asked Deadpool. Snape snarled and drew his wand, but Deadpool moved with surprising speed; he grabbed Snape’s wrist in a vice-like grip, pulled the wand from Snape’s fingers and tossed it over his shoulder. “Yoink! You won’t be needing that.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Snape cried.

Deadpool grabbed the front of Snape’s robes and lifted him back onto his feet, then walked him backwards until the bottom of his back hit the edge of his desk. 

“I just want to talk,” he said innocently. “Don’t look so worried! I’m not going to kill you.” Snape tried to pull away, but Deadpool kneed him in the stomach, winding him. While Snape wheezed and coughed, Deadpool continued, “I will, however, hurt you if I need to. Understood?” 

Snape nodded vigorously. Deadpool tightened his grip on his robes. “Now you listen to me, and you listen closely: you might be one of the most beloved anti-heroes of all time, but that doesn’t excuse you from  _ bullying schoolchildren. _ We get it—getting friendzoned is tough. But that doesn’t give you licence to harass Lily Potter’s son. So she didn’t want to bone you—big deal! You don’t see the rest of us joining death cults because we’ve got blue balls!”

Deadpool bowed his head and took a deep breath to calm himself before speaking again. “All I’m asking is that you treat Harry like a human being. Consider it a favour to me.”

“Who are you?” asked Snape.

“I’m your worst nightmare if you don’t smarten up that attitude of yours,” he warned. “Because if you don’t, I’ll come back. And I don’t care if you’re integral to the plot of this story, if I hear that you’ve been up to your old tricks, I’ll put my foot so far up your ass, every time you brush your teeth, you’ll be shining my shoes! Got it?”

Snape nodded and stammered, “G-got it.” 

Deadpool loosened his grip on Snape’s robes and grinned. “Glad that we could come to an understanding! Honestly, I’m relieved that I didn’t have to kill you, I’m actually a big fan of your work. I know most people would expect me to say my favourite movie of yours is  _ Die Hard, _ but…” Deadpool leaned in closer and whispered, “Between you and me, your performance as Colonel Brandon in  _ Sense and Sensibility _ is by far your best work.” 

Deadpool patted Snape heartily on the shoulder and turned to leave, then he paused. “Oh, and the same thing goes for Neville Longbottom. That kid’s got enough on his plate without having to deal with your shit. So, remember—if I get one inkling that you’re harassing those kids, I’ll kill ya!”

Deadpool turned on his heel and sauntered out of the office, whistling to himself. Shaking like a leaf, Snape had to cling to his desk for support in order to get back to his seat. Collapsing into his chair, he glanced down at Harry Potter’s homework. With a tremendous amount of effort, Snape picked up his discarded quill and scored out the  _ F  _ on Harry’s paper and changed the grade to a  _ D- _ . 

* * *

James Potter watched from the door as Lily played with Harry on the living room floor. They’d been locked away for months now, and it was really beginning to do a number on the two of them: they missed their friends, their jobs—their lives. Even in deceptively normal moments like this, a mother playing with her child, the undercurrent of fear remained. What if today was the day that Voldemort would find them?

James flinched when he heard a polite knock at the door. Lily had frozen too, her eyes wide with fright. “Jamie…”

James grabbed his wand. “Go upstairs with Harry. I’ll check it out.”

“But what if it’s him?”

“If it’s him, I’ll distract him long enough for you and Harry to get out of here. Go!”

Lily scooped Harry into her arms and hurried for the stairs. James waited until he heard the bedroom door to the nursery slam shut before he approached the front door, ready for whatever fate awaited him. Ignoring the pounding of his heart in his ears, James opened the door a few inches and peered outside into the cold, blustery night, and frowned. On his doorstep was a man that he had never seen before in his life.

“James Potter?” asked the masked man.

“Yes?” he replied cautiously. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Deadpool,” said the man. “Don’t worry, I’m a friend. I just wanted to let you know that I took care of Voldemort for you.”

James blinked. “W-what?

“That dude that’s been giving your family trouble? I took care of him,” he repeated, pointing at something a short distance away. 

James looked over Deadpool’s shoulder and his mouth fell open when he saw a decapitated body lying on the ground just beyond the boundary of the cottage. It had several weapons sticking out of it at various angles but they were most certainly dead. Without the head, it was difficult to tell who it was, but if the wand that lay discarded on the ground was any indication, then this was indeed Voldemort. James opened the door wider and stepped out onto the path to take a closer look. 

“Merlin,” he breathed. “It really is him, isn’t it?”

“Yup, he was mighty pissed when I turned up and told him I’d destroyed his Horcruxes.”

“His what?”

“Doesn’t matter, you’re better speaking to Dumbledore about that. Sorry about the mess, but Mr. Spooky was surprisingly difficult to kill. I tried shooting him a few times but that dude was like the goddamn Terminator, he just kept getting back up! I had to take his head clean off before he eventually stopped.” Deadpool held up the head as evidence of what he had done and James recoiled in horror as Voldemort’s face stared lifelessly up at him. 

_ “Oh my god!” _

“I’ve been sitting out here all day freezing my ass off waiting for him to turn up,” Deadpool grumbled, punting the head over the hedge out of sight. “I should have known he’d turn up just before midnight. Villains work embarrassingly predictable hours.”

“James, what’s happening down there?” Lily cried.

“Nothing!” James replied. “I mean. Just—stay where you are! I’ll be up in a minute.”

Deadpool nodded approvingly. “Good call. You don’t want the baby to see a headless dude in your garden—that sort of thing can traumatize a child.”

“I...I don’t know what to say,” said James weakly. “Thank you, I suppose?”

Deadpool waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, don’t mention it. I was happy to help. Honestly, it’s been fun taking out all of the bad guys again, I’ve kinda missed it. I took the liberty of killing a few other bad guys for you before I came around here: the Lestranges, Barty Crouch Jr., Fenrir Greyback, Lucius Malfoy...I also paid a visit to the Dursleys. Don’t worry, I didn’t kill them,  just slightly maimed them.”

James looked flabbergasted at Deadpool’s admission, but he cleared his throat and asked, “Well, in that case, would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”

Deadpool yawned and shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m kinda tired now. Killing people really takes it out of you. I think I’ll just go home and have a nap. Maybe do a bit of scrapbooking, that always helps me to relax.”

Deadpool waved goodbye to James and turned to face the reader again. “I am pretty beat...but think I’ve got just enough energy to pay one more person a visit…”

* * *

J.K. Rowling sat at her office desk scrolling through her Twitter feed. She’d already shared her unsolicited views on trans rights, what inane facts could she share about the Wizarding world today? Her thumb hovered over the screen of her cell phone as she thought for a moment, then she started typing:

_ Neville Longbottom is a top and leads Hufflepuff group masturbation sessions. _

No, that wasn’t radical enough. She deleted the message and started typing again:

_ Harry’s Firebolt is bi-curious. _

She read the tweet again and smiled approvingly. Yes, that’ll do nicely. Before she could hit send, she heard an audible click. Incidentally, that was the last thing she ever heard. 

_ Bang. _

As the bullet from Deadpool’s gun exited J.K.’s skull, her cell phone slipped from her fingers and fell to the ground, never to darken the fandom’s newsfeeds again. Deadpool sighed and lowered his gun. 

“I’m gonna be honest, that was a tough one,” he admitted. “But it was my moral duty to protect the Harry Potter legacy, even if it was from its creator. Plus, I just can’t abide transphobia—and neither should you. Yeah, there are moral lessons to be learned from this story too! But man, hasn’t it been a rollercoaster ride of emotions? There’s been love, laughter, and violence—it even had lube! And most importantly, no cows! Not a single one. And for that, I am eternally grateful.”

Deadpool holstered his pistols and bid a fond farewell to the reader. “We’re dragging out the inevitable here, and I’m not very good at goodbyes so...I guess I’ll see you around! Thanks for taking the time to read my story. And remember [insert words of wisdom here].”

Deadpool looked up at Author. “Seriously? You couldn’t think of anything to put in there?”

(Author) Sorry, I ran out of steam.

“You couldn’t let me go out on a high note, could you?” he grumbled. In an anticlimactic finale, Deadpool walked out of frame for the last time, finally bringing this tale to an end.

THE END

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to my betas,[ OllieMaye ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OllieMaye/pseuds/OllieMaye),[ BrandonStrayne ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandonStrayne/pseuds/BrandonStrayne) and [ Drarryismymuse (Hatchersn) ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatchersn) for helping me with my atrocious SPaG.


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